


Chained

by missriddle



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Angst, F/M, Hate to Love, Horror, Humor, M/M, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-22
Updated: 2019-03-29
Packaged: 2019-04-26 13:42:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 36,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14403330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missriddle/pseuds/missriddle
Summary: Then Harry’s mouth went completely dry.His captor struck a tall, imposing figure, black locks neatly framing his aristocratic cheekbones. The relaxed line of his mouth did nothing to soften the furious, slightly maniacal glint in his cool gray eyes, fixed unwaveringly upon him.“Finally awake… Death Eater?” the man spat spitefully.Harry never would have imagined meeting like this.The words “I can explain” were stuck on the tip of his tongue. But all that came out was a soft, strangled,“Sirius.”*Harry and Teddy accidentally time travel to 1979 — where they are immediately captured by Death Eaters. Trapped in Voldemort's clutches, Harry poses as a Death Eater to keep Teddy safe... only to be captured, many months later, by the Order.





	1. Chapter 1

_2002_

“ _Teddy!_ ” Harry yelled as he searched for the source of his godson’s latest explosion, flinching as something fell from Grimmauld Place’s long-abused, vaulted ceiling.

He banged open another door, the distinct smell of sulfur immediately flooding his nose. His eyes watered as he finally picked out Teddy Lupin’s small form, barely visible behind smoke and a bubbling cauldron.

Harry had been perfectly fine with indulging Teddy’s blooming interest in Potions by buying him a “pre-Hogwarts” learner’s kit. Heck, he’d been thrilled that his godson was turning out to be such an academic — something Harry himself had always wished he’d been.

But there was only so much a pair of pleading puppy eyes could make up for.

Even if they belonged to the most adorable six-year-old in existence... who was currently in the process of wiping soot from his too-big, circular glasses with the bottom of his shirt. With a small sniff, Teddy perched them back on his nose and nudged them up, blinking his copycat green, bespectacled eyes in Harry’s direction. After two years of living with Harry, Teddy had adopted some of Harry’s features and resolutely refused to change them, even when it meant catching his drastic case of myopia.

And of course, Harry thought with equal parts fondness and exasperation, Teddy’s endearing copycat features and habits always worked like a _cheering charm_ on Harry.

“Harry!" Teddy blurted, his usual curly black hair flashing bright yellow in surprise, before he started stumbling through his usual set of apologies. His small hands gestured animatedly as he assured Harry, with those big green eyes, that "it was an accident" and he would "pinky promise never _ever_ to do that again... _"_

Harry suppressed a snort. _Liar._

"... So _pleeeease_ don't take away my potions," Teddy ended, the adorable pout forming on his face doing absolutely nothing to disguise the slight smugness in his tone. Because Harry had never _not_ forgiven Teddy, being the slight push-over that he was.

 _Manipulative little troublemaker_ , he thought fondly. If Harry didn't do something about Teddy's behavior soon, didn't stop spoiling him, the baby Marauder would end up like Malfoy.

He leaned against the door sill with crossed arms, attempting to keep his expression cross. Honestly, how did parents keep a straight face through all the funny shit their kids put them through?

 _Probably because they're older than_ _twenty-one,_ a small inner voice informed him, _and better at managing their kids._

Harry shoved that inner voice down a ditch.

Yes, he’d been young when he’d taken Teddy in. But it was a choice he’d make a million times over. Teddy was his _godson,_ perhaps the only real family Harry had ever had.

And he was absolutely precious _,_ Harry thought, unable to stop himself from smiling as he marveled at the way Teddy’s baby cheeks had puffed out, his small fingers awkwardly clutching at broken glass. His skin was dotted with splotches of what looked like _wet sand—_

Harry froze.

_Wait a second…_

“— this cool thing I found in a room I got "access" to because I have Black blood or something. Which is weird because I always thought my blood was just a really dark shade of red —”

“Teddy!” Harry cut in, suddenly panicked. Because Teddy had a tendency to put “cool things” in his potions… which is usually what led to his daily explosion…

But an explosion with time-turning sand meant something entirely different.

Harry narrowed his eyes, feeling the phantom beginnings of a migraine. Of course, Grimmauld Place, former home of the Blacks _,_ would be holding a couple specimens of illegal artifacts that weren’t even supposed to exist anymore.

“— and then I thought of adding this golden saAAAH—!” Teddy was cut off as Harry summoned him directly into his arms. “Harry, what are you doing—?”

Harry set Teddy down, kneeled until they were eye-level, and took Teddy’s glowing hand. It was speckled with small golden particles. Carefully, he picked up a particle and held it up, addressing Teddy seriously.

“Did you put this sand in the cauldron?”

Teddy hesitated before, slowly but surely, nodding.  

Harry’s sixth sense began to ring like an alarm bell. He uneasily eyed the bubbling cauldron, which continued give off small bursts.

Well, at least it was a learner’s kit so nothing would happ-

A blinding flash starting at the cauldron overtook the entire room as its contents exploded everywhere. Harry’s head hit the ground, black spots distorting his vision. The last thing he remembered seeing before falling into oblivion was Teddy falling next to him, curling into himself as blood began to run from his hands.

**.**

**.**

**Part I**

**The Death Eaters**

**.**

**.**

 

_1979_

Harry woke up in a large, dark bedroom.

The marbled floor beneath him was cold and black, contrasted by the creamy whiteness of the walls. A deep violet, queen-sized bed was suspended in the air a couple feet away from him.

Vaguely, Harry found a sense of familiarity in the endless series of gothic-style, vaulted ceilings.

He got up and started walking around the room, scanning the clear bedside table and pristine walls. No pictures or posters indicated to whom it all belonged.

His eyes caught on the bedcovers once more, noticing a haze of dust upon them.

 _Strange._ An abandoned bedroom, then?

Before Harry could investigate further, he heard the echo of footsteps down the hallway outside. He disillusioned himself with a flick of his wand and quickly hid in a nearby closet, squinting through a crack between the closet and wall. His heart pounded furiously as he tried to remember where he was… how he’d gotten here…

The murmur of voices grew louder and more distinctive as they came closer.

“... I’ll only be here for a little while, Uncle,” said a low but unquestioningly feminine voice.

“Oh, Bella!” The man’s voice was warm, jovial. “Stay here as long as you like.”

The door creaked open to reveal a young, dark-haired woman dressed in an extravagant red dress.

A smile slowly stretched across her face as she observed the room. She was undeniably stunning—high cheekbones complemented her heavy-lidded eyes, framed by elegant curls. And yet, there was something awfully familiar about her, something about her appearance and the amused glint in her eyes that made Harry want to barf and _Crucio her at the same time—_

Harry abruptly stopped that train of thought, shuddering, shaken and disturbed by his own mind.

The woman turned back to face the man. “Thank you, Uncle. I’ll see you at the feast.”

Once her uncle had left, she flew her luggage into the room. Harry barely managed to hold back a jerk of surprise as it banged carelessly against the closet he was hiding in.

She entered the room alone, closing the door behind her.

“I know you’re there.”

Dark eyes flashed dangerously in Harry’s direction. He tensed instinctively, his mind racing. The woman’s casual tone of voice gave nothing away, complementing the nonchalant way she leaned against the door.

But all pretenses of casualness were ruined by her drawn wand, circling ominously over the closet he was trapped in.

“Reveal yourself, _imposter_.” She spat the last word with burning vitriol, and now her hand was clenching visibly around her wand—as if she were fighting to restrain herself—

With another bang, the closet crumpled inwards before cracking completely, falling to the ground. Harry watched, disillusioned and shielded, as the closet before him disintegrated into little particles. Like dust.

Like _sand._

Memories of the cauldron incident hit Harry like a train wreck. The speckles of golden sand stuck to Teddy's hand. Teddy admitting that he'd poured it into his cauldron…

_“Harry…”_

_Time-turning_ sand.

Harry’s eyes widened slowly in realization. And the more he took in his surroundings, the more they seemed to confirm his terrible suspicions.

It had been a learner's kit, for Merlin’s sake. And— _Teddy. Where was Teddy?_ _Was he okay? Teddy... Teddy…_

With worry for his godson at the forefront of his mind, Harry turned his attention back to the woman, barely managing to dodge a spell she threw his way. A second perusal of her had Harry suppressing the urge to shudder in disgust and recognition.

Of course, the first person he met was going to be _Bellatrix Lestrange._ At Grimmauld Place, in the room that used to be, or will be, Teddy’s future playroom.

_And where was Teddy now?_

An unpleasant feeling bubbled at the bottom of his stomach as he remembered the blood that had been streaming from Teddy's hands. And now Harry couldn't get the image of his small, bloodstained fingers out of his mind, couldn't do _anything_ at all...

_Oh God. Teddy._

But before Harry could even start to thinking about what to do, a spell caught him and reversed his disillusionment spell.   

Bellatrix’s eyes widened as they caught on him, and Harry stared back.

Then she narrowed her eyes at him once more, training her wand at his chest as she approached him. Harry stood his ground and glared back, his own wand pointing back at her.

She stopped, tilting her head contemplatively.

“You must have a lot of courage,” Bellatrix’s mouth curled viciously. “To walk past the Black wards in,” she threw him a disgusted once over, “ _muggle_ attire.”

Harry gritted his teeth and said nothing. Out of the corner of his eyes, he scanned the room for a hint of light brown hair, small fingers, _anything._ Briefly, he thought he almost heard the sound of a piano playing from a faraway corner of the Manor.

But Bellatrix continued to look at him expectantly, almost curiously.

“Well?” She demanded, crossing her arms. “How did you do it?”

He blinked in confusion. “What?”

She glowered at him, gesturing impatiently with one of her hands—the one that wasn’t training a wand at him. “How did you surpass the Black wards?”

_Time-traveling, apparently—_

_Also, I inherit this property in the future so—_

Harry let out an exhilarated, slightly hysterical laugh, running a hand through his hair as he attempted to think of what he could possible _say._

_Think, Harry. Just keep it simple. Stay close to the truth._

He took a deep breath and said,

“No idea.”

Bellatrix glared at him, the tip of her wand beginning to glow threateningly.  

He cleared his throat. “I was… I just randomly blacked out and the next thing I knew... " He threw up his hands haphazardly, awkwardly, "I was here.”

Harry rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. "I would be extremely grateful if you could just let me out…?”

He winced internally. Appealing to Bellatrix’s sense of mercy definitely wasn’t his strongest idea ever, considering that he knew she had none.

He didn’t even know why he was _trying—_

Bellatrix raised an eyebrow. “Blacked out? So you're an alcoholic?" Before Harry could protest, she sighed and continued, "As I suspected. Just a poor drunken sod with access to the Black wards,” the woman muttered lowly, “Possibly due to being yet another illegitimate offspring of my uncle’s.”

A wicked grin appeared on her face. “I suppose I should get rid of you before my relatives see you. Or worse, the guests.”

Bellatrix began to walk away, expecting Harry to follow. “We can’t have someone noticing you in all your... " she eyed his jeans and t-shirt distastefully once more, " _muggle_ glory. Or better yet," she paused, before flicking her wand in Harry's direction and transfiguring his current attire into wizarding-style robes, " _there_ we go."

As he trailed after her, he picked the place apart in search of Teddy, dread pooling in his stomach. The sound of piano grew louder, and Harry began to see its source as he came to the end of the hall, near the top of the staircase. Bright candle lights were floating all over the place, illuminating the shockingly pristine condition of Grimmauld Place. Appetizers were floating between chunks of people, all engaged in conversation.

Having guests over? This was a full-blown party.

One guess what kind of crowd this was.

“You’re just… releasing me?” Harry asked, suspicion coloring his voice. It seemed odd, almost too _easy_ that Bellatrix was releasing him without even a single Unforgivable.

As they made their way down the stairs, he tried to keep his mind off the fact he was probably surrounded by at least fifty Death Eaters.

“As much as it pains me to admit,” Bellatrix turned back in his direction at the bottom of the staircase, waiting for him with an indecipherable glint in her eyes. “You are undeniably blood-related to a Black, for the wards to have let you in. There is no way an outsider could have penetrated them.”

 _So… she sees me as family?_ Harry wondered, horrification flooding at the thought as he continued down staircase, unprepared for the deafening creak emitted by the third-to-last step.

 _Creaaaak._ It echoed down the staircase into the ballroom, the loudest distinguishable noise in the entire Manor.

All eyes turned on him.

Someone whispered, “ _Imposter.”_

Harry froze.

“And thus,” Bellatrix spoke, observing her nails calmly at her place near the staircase. “However improbable, you—dirty little _bastard_ _—_ pose a threat to the Blacks. One that needs to be _dealt_ with accordingly.”

And then there were wands pointing at him from all directions—throwing spells at Harry with a viciousness that had him immediately on the defensive, rapidly backing up the staircase.

Amidst all the chaos, he heard a familiar sob. His breath caught as he followed the sound with his eyes.

_Teddy._

A small head peeked out from the middle of the crowd, submerged in a group of larger adults.

“—I SAID, WHERE’s HAR— _mmmph_ ,” A hand suddenly covered Teddy’s mouth, muffling him as another clawed itself around his small wrists.

Anger seizing him, Harry leapt off the staircase and ran forward, dodging a flurry of spells as he pointed his wand at the cloaked figure holding Teddy back.

_Expelliarmus!_

... Nothing happened. He waved his wand again… and again…

 _“Expelliarmus!”_ Harry spoke out loud, frustration teeming in his voice.

That hauntingly familiar giggle sounded from behind him.

“I removed your wand when I transfigured your clothes. What you hold is nothing but a mere _twig._ ”

Bellatrix gazed pointedly at Harry's wand, a darkly malicious glint in her eyes as she smiled, teeth glinting. Her own wand was now trained on Harry, and with a plummeting feeling in his stomach, he realized what he needed to do.

Because the wands that weren’t pointing at him were trained on his godson.

“Don’t hurt Teddy,” Harry said, resisting the urge to beg.

And despite his instincts screaming at him, despite his _hatred_ for the woman next to him—

Harry put his hands up, awaiting punishment at the hands of Voldemort’s followers.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! Thank you so much for the comments! I'm sorry about the late update - just finished a bunch of exams and I should be able to update more frequently now.  
> Enjoy!

_Harry put his hands up, awaiting punishment at the hands of Voldemort’s followers._

A soft, chilling voice cut through the silence like a knife.

“Now, now… no need to scare the boy. _Yet_.”

Harry jerked violently, his eyes automatically seeking and searching for the voice’s source, his heart rate speeding up dramatically.

Oh, he knew that voice.... knew it _well…_

“But I will enjoy letting our new allies... _play_ with him... before I get a taste.”

The crowd of Dark witches and wizards seemed to have heard and registered the underlying meaning in the voice’s command, for they parted like the Red Sea before Moses, spreading to the furthest corners of the ballroom.

And yet, _he_ was nowhere to be found.

Where was he?

Quiet laughter sounded from behind him, and Harry spun around, dread pooling in his stomach. A tall, hooded figure stood behind him, bathed elegantly in dark robes. Somehow, the lights were dimmed around him… almost like a reverse halo...

Except… the darkness was creeping towards Harry… _attacking_ him… and the cold, chilling laughter was growing louder, and _louder—_

_“No, not Harry! Anyone but Harry… “_

_Flashes of Dobby bleeding out, Hedwig falling…_

_Sirius falling through the veil, his laugh frozen forever upon his face._

Dementors. Of course.

Harry struggled for a while longer before his eyes drooped in defeat.

  

.     .     . 

 

“ _Aguamenti._ ”

Water crashed onto his head, and Harry blinked awake after his fifth time of fainting from the Cruciatus curse. Still in a daze, he lifted his head from the puddle of blood that had leaked from his now crusted ear.

“I will not repeat myself,” the hooded figure at the center spoke, his voice low and words sharply enunciated. “Tell me _your name, boy._ ”

Harry sunk against the wall, already kept in place by the chains around his wrists and ankles. The air was dank in the Black family dungeons, but its unpleasantness held no comparison to the man standing in front of him.

The small, rebellious part of Harry that had once enjoyed pissing Snape off in Potions initially wanted to say his name was, “ _Boy, sir. You said it yourself.”_

But that had been hours ago. Now he was left trembling in fear, in disbelief, in sheer unexpectedness and horror… in fatigue, in despair…

“Lord Voldemort…” Harry whispered, his mind already feeling halfway broken. Everything seemed to move in slow motion around him, as if his senses were numb. And still, he was unable to keep the varying depth and expanse of emotions out of his voice.

Pain spiked across his forehead for the first time in several years as the Dark Lord visibly clenched his pale hand around the end of his wand, stalking forward menacingly as his voice rose in fury.

“Not _my_ name, you _fool._ ”

No. No. _No—_

Harry screamed again as Voldemort put him under a nonverbal _Crucio,_ relentlessly continuing the spell for at least a minute before ceasing. He was left coughing on the floor, blood dripping from his mouth as a glint of shining black peaked in the shadows.

“Now, listen closely _._ ”

Out of the blue, long, thin fingers grasped Harry’s chin and pressed into his clenched jawbone, the full face of Lord Voldemort at once revealed as he looked down at Harry.

Black eyes gleamed down at him with a familiar mixture of disgust and disregard.

His features were mostly human; he wasn’t the red-eyed, snakelike Voldemort who had emerged from the great stone cauldron in Harry’s Fourth Year. Remnants of his former good looks were visible in the high cheekbones that bled into hollowed cheeks, the slim nose that now looked down upon Harry.

And yet, he was no longer the handsome Tom Riddle. His features were blurred, waxy and oddly distorted, and the whites of his eyes—though almond-shaped - held a permanently bloody look.

Somehow, his not-quite-human form was far scarier than the future, snake-like form of his own creation.

 _Disgusting,_ Harry thought. _Despicable._

The fingers clutching his jaw tightened. For a second, Harry could have sworn he saw those thin lips smirking knowingly down at him.

“The Black wards are well-known for their strength, and practically _renowned_ for their ability to detect the identities of those who pass through them. For centuries, the wards have been linked to Ministry databases containing the magical signatures of every registered wizard and witch. Nationally and internationally. Dead and alive."

Harry frowned in apprehension as Voldemort’s mouth once again curled downwards, shadows spiraling within his night-black irises.

“Imagine my surprise when Orion Black told me his wards had been breached by an unknown figure… someone who truly, could not possibly exist.”

Harry’s eyes flickered around, looking for Teddy, looking anywhere but at Voldemort as he spoke his next words.

“So tell me… _Harry…_ ”

Harry flinched, and Voldemort drunk in his expression with delight, his smirk transitioning into a small, close-lipped smile.

“Who are you, in the _future?_ ” Harry’s eyes widened, a dead giveaway that confirmed Voldemort's conjecture. The tall, hooded man powered brutally onwards, vicious satisfaction painted across his sharp features. “An ally of Lord Voldemort’s?” He tilted his head slightly. “Not a direct descendant of the Blacks, of course, judging by your name’s lack of astrological meaning.”

Harry clenched his jaw as Voldemort leaned in closer. “Or perhaps… an enemy. ”

Silence. He stubbornly kept quiet, not trusting himself to reveal anything but the truth.

Voldemort’s voice dropped to a vicious hiss. “ _Ansssswer meee!”_

He jerked in Voldemort’s grip. “NOBODY! I’m nobody special!” Harry ripped himself out of Voldemort’s grasp, eyes wild and fluttering as his mind raced. He needed to be convincing. He needed to believe… a lie…

He brought memories of his aunt telling him about his parents to the surface of his mind, concentrating on the vivid memory of her voice, her terrible, unsympathetic demeanor...

“I’m just a boy, an _orphan,_ whose _muggle_ parents died in a car crash when I was five years old.”

Pause. Those black eyes bore into him a while longer.

Then Voldemort’s face sank into a dark scowl as he dug his nails into Harry’s cheeks, rasping, “Such _lies.”_

Harry’s heart skipped a beat.

The yew wand was now pointed at a cowering, sobbing, tiny figure in the corner of the room, who’d stopped calling Harry’s name long ago. His formerly jet black hair had lightened to its natural mousy brown, his swollen eyes having changed to a watery blue.

“ _Harr.. yyy,"_ Teddy spoke once more, his voice hoarse and faint.

Harry’s chest wrenched painfully. _God, Teddy. I’m so sorry._

Voldemort tightened his grip on Harry’s jaw, flipping Harry’s attention back to himself. “Your son is next. One more mistake… ” his raspy voice trailed off, promising unspeakable punishments.

Even after all the torture that he’d been through, Voldemort’s statement felt like a fresh bucket of cold water. Up until that point, everything had felt unreal. It was so terrible and strange… to go from a world of a defeated dark lord to being tortured by one at the height of his power within mere minutes.

But Teddy… Teddy being here changed everything. Teddy was Harry’s sanity, his connection to their proper time period, his reason to survive everything…

And at that moment, Harry looked up, determination sparking his movement as he resolved to get through this. He would have to defeat Voldemort before getting back to his own time period. Somehow. Again. Without the benefit of a fluke.

The feather-light brush against his mind had Harry tensing up.

Voldemort slid his hand up Harry’s neck, softly petting through his hair as if they were the scales of a precious snake, before he whispered into Harry’s ear. His actions were so at odds with the cruel words spilling out of his mouth…

“Give me one reason why I shouldn’t _rip your mind to shreds…”_

Harry shivered as he skimmed through his Occlumency lessons with Snape, his Occlumency sessions during Auror training, more determined than ever that he make his mind shielded.

But then, the craziest, _craziest_ plan was formulating in his mind…

 _“We must plan. We’ve always got to have a plan, Harry!” came his inner-Hermione’s voice, a product of a far-away memory from several years ago…_  

_The best lies are half-truth…_

Harry dropped his mental shields. The feather-touch on his mind grew stronger as he looked Voldemort directly in the eyes.

“My name is Harry Potter,” Harry spoke, his voice choked yet clear. “I’m from the year 2002. Half blood, but nonetheless,” Harry looked down, shielding his eyes and mind through the disguise of submission, “loyal to you.”

Voldemort regarded him with narrowed eyes, silence prolonging for another moment, before dropping his hand from Harry’s head and straightening up.

“A… _Potter._ ” the taller man murmured, eyes flickering down and up Harry’s form only settle on his unruly, jet-black hair. “Of course. Any relation to James Potter?”

Judging by Voldemort’s reaction, it was safe to say that the Harry of this world hadn’t been born yet. Which meant that he hadn’t heard the prophecy yet, either…

Harry loosened up slightly in relief, his plan slowly gaining momentum.

_What was the date anyways? The year?_

“Yes, he was my father,” Harry answered, looking up. “But, my less-than-ideal upbringing… ” Harry conjured countless memories of his cupboard, his childhood, glancing at Voldemort’s inscrutable face before blinking downwards once again, “eventually caused me to turn away from him… and the Order.”

Voldemort stilled. “The _Order?_ ” he asked, his expression as unreadable as ever.

However, it was clear that Harry hadn’t given away anything new, judging by the distaste clear in Voldemort’s eyes.

_Good._

Harry stared stubbornly back, “The Order of the Phoenix.” With Voldemort’s eyes continuing to gaze into his, Harry thought of his fifth year, his friends… fighting with several Order members… shouting, breaking glass in Dumbledore’s office…

The subtle, feathery touch on his mind disappeared.

Voldemort blinked, looking away. Then he took a step backwards, regarding Harry appraisingly as his eyes slowly narrowed.

“I’m not the type to bother with strays… even those lost in time. But there is something very strange about you.” His eyes seemed to flicker between black and navy blue in the light, the redness in the white of his eyes more pronounced.

“You _irk_ me.”

If he hadn’t just been tortured for hours on end, Harry would have snorted and replied, _“It was fated.”_

Voldemort lifted his wand from its steady position trained at Teddy’s head. He began fingering the tip of it with his other hand.

“At any rate, hearing your knowledge of the future and Order will be enlightening. Then I’ll see what I can do with you afterwards.” He turned his back on Harry to call on his followers.

“Malfoy, douse him with Veritaserum.”

“Yes, my Lord.” The tall figure with long blonde hair stalked forward, and it was all Harry could do not to spit on his face as he neared.

Lucius Malfoy, looking much younger than Harry ever remembered seeing him, turned that horribly slippery smile on him.

Harry panicked. No. _No, no, no._ Anything was better than Veritaserum.

Voldemort made to leave the room, walking slowly towards the door. “Report to me with your findings at twenty o’clock. Torture the son if he gets unruly.”

Harry glanced briefly at Teddy, both worried and relieved to find that he’d long since passed out, fingers in his mouth.

As Malfoy hummed his assent, Harry tried to find relief in the fact that Voldemort was leaving. But, mixed in with an impending sense of doom at the sight of a pale blue flask, he knew he couldn’t let a damn _word_ about the real future get out. To anyone. God, especially Malfoy.

Potions were the products of exacting, scientific procedures. Once made successfully, their effects were guaranteed. But _Legilimency_ wasn’t called a Mind _Art_ for show. It was unpredictable and subjective…

 _And at least, with Legilimency,_ Harry regarded the man’s cloaked figure as it stalked away, _he might have a modicum of choice in what he gave away, however limited it was._

On an impulse part calculation and and mostly hopeful foolishness, Harry called out to Voldemort.

“Leaving so soon, _Tom Riddle_?”

Voldemort visibly froze in his steps, his hand stilling on the barely touched door knob. Malfoy seemed to take a breath, eyes slowly widening at the gradual realization of his master’s true name.

Then everything was a blur.

Suddenly, a hand was clawing through the back of Harry’s head, digging past his locks into his scalp as it roughly pulling his head back against his neck. Another hand came up to choke him.

“How _dare_ you call me by that name.”

Black eyes glared furiously back at him, mere inches from his own face.

“Who _are_ you?” Voldemort whispered harshly. And yet, it must have been a rhetorical question… for Harry could barely _breathe_ with those long fingers wrapped around his throat _,_ let alone answer.

Harry struggled for a few moments more, and only after nearly a minute did Voldemort release his neck, keeping his other hand clawed deeply into his scalp as he raised his voice a notch. Weakened, Harry’s knees buckled and he grasped the wall behind him to prevent himself from slipping down to the damp, dungeon ground.

“Get out, Malfoy.”

Malfoy quickly made for the door, only to pause briefly as his hand reached out to open it, “But my Lord… the Verita—”

“ _Obliviate.”_ Malfoy’s face turned pleasantly blank, but a couple of blinks later he was scrambling to get out as Voldemort hissed at him again, “ _Out, I ssssaid!”_

Harry’s ears rung eerily. Voldemort had slipped into parseltongue by the end of the sentence, and despite the lack of horcrux in his body, he’d understood it.

_Why had he understood it?_

By the last word, Malfoy had slammed the door shut on his way out, leaving the two of them alone once again. Harry looked up at Voldemort, having no choice but to do so from the still-strained position of his neck. Voldemort leaned forward over him, bracing his other arm on the wall above Harry’s right ear… crowding him.

“I no longer have the patience for Veritaserum,” Voldemort spat, “so brace yourself against my cruder methods.”

Harry swallowed dryly as he answered. “Legilimency.”

The Dark Lord smirked. “Ten points to Gryffindor.” As much as Harry tried to prevent the slightest flicker of expression at the mention of his former House, Voldemort must have seen something. His mouth curled in an odd mixture of triumph and distaste. “Correct again. How disgustingly predictable you are. I don’t even need Legilimency to divulge your true origins.”

He leaned in closer, “But _no,”_ Voldemort clenched his hand in Harry’s scalp. “I will enjoy ravaging your mind, taking you apart one memory at time until you _beg_ me for death…”

His black eyes bore into him, “And only once you are completely broken shall I, being a merciful Lord… oblige.”

With that, he dove into Harry’s mind.

 

Harry screamed bloody murder.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts? Comment :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Thank you so much for your patience! After seeing how many kudos I got, I’ve decided to continue this story!  
> … Which meant actually planning out the story/plot in detail XD  
> I’m excited about where this will be going!

_Harry screamed bloody murder._

And then, he focused.

Memories of quidditch, red robes, and the Weasleys were wrenched to the surface of his mind. But Harry fought the constant stream of thought with other memories, _darker_ memories.

_The Sorting Hat, telling Harry he would do great things in Slytherin._

_Throwing Sectumsempra at Draco…_

Harry felt an odd twinge in his stomach at the realization of how _easily_ he could have actually become something… monstrous. But he continued to push certain dark memories to the surface, seeking to answer Voldemort’s question as fast as possible.

_Speaking to the conjured snake in his second year._

_Opening the Chamber of Secrets._

_Tom Riddle’s Diary…_

And just like that, Voldemort was pushing out of his mind, his wide eyes barely an inch from Harry’s own. The taller man’s hands were clutching at Harry’s face in a murderous grasp, agony written across his features.

“ _Who gave you my diary?”_ Voldemort rasped.

In parseltongue.

Harry made the executive decision to respond in kind, his mind revisiting the older Lucius Malfoy from the bookstore in his second year.

“ _Lucius Malfoy. He let it slip into an eleven-year-old’s hands._ ”

_“And what happened to it?”_

Harry looked down. “ _Dumbledore found and destroyed it.”_

Voldemort furiously threw Harry back against the wall, his right hand twiddling his wand in an agitated manner as he began to pace, muttering parseltongue threats under his breath.

 _“I should wipe your mind for knowing… torture you_ endlessly _…”_

Harry struggled to stay calm, his eyes continuing to frequent the dark corner to his right.

_Teddy._

Voldemort turned back to look at Harry once more, eyes burning with ill-conceived curiosity. Millions of questions seemed to be warring across his features. “ _Have you always been able to speak parseltongue? Or was it just the Diary, manipulating you…”_

 _“I’ve been able to speak it for as long as I can remember.”_ Harry tilted his head inquiringly. “ _That’s usually how it works with parseltongue, isn’t it?”_

Harry looked down, frowning. It had also _disappeared_ when the horcrux inside of him was destroyed. The fact that he could speak it again...

 _Was not important. He didn't need to—couldn't_ afford _to—_ think _about that right now._

 _“Impossible,”_ Voldemort muttered to himself, continuing to pace. His eyebrows, furrowed in thought, seemed nearly etched into his forehead, his mouth small and pursed. The little light streaming into the dungeons played across Voldemort’s features like dancing phoenix flames, emphasizing the dark hollows of his cheek, the skeletal structure of his face.

Harry leaned back against the wall, tilting his head towards the dark, flat ceiling of the Black dungeons.

In accordance with his plans, a small, bitter-sounding chuckle escaped Harry’s mouth, “You can see why it was a bit _difficult_ for me to stay on the other side.”

As Voldemort turned to look at him, he let his mind fill with images of Ron’s shock and disgust, people looking at him in distrust after the duel in Second Year. People calling him _Heir of Slytherin…_ which of course, Harry hadn’t been.

But what did Voldemort know? Only what Harry showed and told him… and from there, well, he could very well draw his own conclusions.

Whether he chose sympathize or not... or at least, draw similarities between himself and Harry...

He could practically read the cracks forming in Voldemort’s unreadable facade, the gears turning and misinterpreting Harry’s thoughts and memories just the way Harry had hoped he would.

Voldemort crept closer. “Did my future self know about you? About your abilities?”

“I’m not sure. I had actually been trying to track you down,” _to track down your horcruxes and destroy you,_ “in order to join your cause. But it was difficult finding a discreet way to do so, especially since I was constantly surrounded by Order members…”

_There now. Quickly, tie all the loose ends._

“And then, my friend Hermione—she used to have a time turner for getting to her classes. My godson Teddy found it and decided to drop it into a potion cauldron… ” Harry forced the memories to play through his mind before he shrugged. “And here we are.”

Silence.

Voldemort merely stared wide-eyed at him, no longer bother to hide his incredulity. Then he continued with his pacing, prolonging the silence in his contemplation.

Harry began playing with the chains on his wrists, attempting to displace the nervousness wreaking havoc in his head.

“You will not reveal your knowledge of the future, including details about yourself, to anyone else… unless I allow it.”

“Yes, sir.”

To Harry’s shock, a bright, white light was emitted from Voldemort’s wand, wrapping itself around both Voldemort and Harry.

Harry jerked back, his eyes searching for Voldemort and finding slightest of smirks and glowing eyes, satisfaction burning brightly in them.

_Voldemort had just performed an Unbreakable Vow… without an intermediary._

Horror slowly dawned within Harry as he realized the implications of what had just occurred.

_He couldn’t tell anyone, even Order members he managed to meet, about being from the future. He couldn’t ask for help… nor could he offer any…_

Harry gritted his teeth at his carelessness. One more trap, one more thing that chained him to this horrible, horrible situation.

“Very well. Perhaps you'll prove useful.”

Harry’s head jerked upwards as Voldemort continued to speak, giving him one last, assessing look. “I’ll be keeping a close eye on you. But for now, I will give you the chance my future self was not able to.”

Harry’s eyes widened, before flickering upwards. Had he done it?

With a twitch of his wrists, Voldemort broke the chains binding Harry before beckoned upwards with a sweeping gesture. “ _Rise,_ initiate.”

He _had_ done it. Somehow, Harry had tricked Lord Voldemort into believing his future murderer would make a great follower.

“Rise, so I can mark you,” Voldemort uttered, his tone drier than sandpaper.

Harry froze. Was Voldemort going to…

“ _Come here, boy.”_ Voldemort hissed, slipping back into parseltongue, “ _Before I decide you’re better off dead._ ”

Harry scrambled to hit feet. “You’re giving me the Dark Mark?” he intoned calmly, his voice at odds with the panic bubbled in his stomach at the thought of a permanent tattoo of Voldemort’s symbol marring him.

Voldemort sneered, “ _No. That_ honor is reserved for members of my inner circle.” He pulled at Harry’s wrist, jabbing his wand into a vein. “However, I will be giving you your… uniform.”

On that note, he slashed his wand across Harry’s wrist, causing a green, smoke-like band to hover over it. With another flick of Voldemort’s yew wand, the green band—a _snake,_ Harry realized a split second too late—tightened itself around Harry’s skin before disappearing completely.

The only noticeable difference was the greener tinge of one of his wrist veins. From a certain angle, it even seemed to glow….

Voldemort released Harry’s wrist.

“If you flick your wrist like this,” Voldemort said, demonstrating, “you will be clothed in your Death Eater robes and mask.” He gave Harry a long, pointed look. “You always must be in uniform during missions and training.”

“Prove your worth, initiate, and you’ll be rewarded beyond your imagination in the new era.”

With that, Voldemort pressed his wand to his own dark mark.

 A figure appeared before him in a mini-whirlwind, her wild, dark curls bouncing around her.

“My _lord,”_ came a drawling, enticing voice.

Bellatrix was staring straight into Voldemort’s black ones with puke-worthy devotion. As she glanced in Harry’s direction, her thin, red lips curved into lazy, dangerous smile, as if to say, _You again?_ _I’ll beat you up properly this time—_

“Bella _,”_ Voldemort spoke, his tone firm yet soft. “Arrange for this new initiate’s accommodations within the Black Manor.

Bellatrix giggled, and Harry stared at her in disbelief. Her almost pleasant demeanor a far cry from the one he had initially encountered. “Of course. Were the dungeons not to his liking?”

Amusement flickered across Voldemort’s features. “Unfortunately, no.”

As Voldemort’s top lieutenant erupted in laughter again, Harry swallowed the distinct taste of bile in his throat.

Were they actually _flirting_ ? _Merlin._ Gross.

“Very well,” Bellatrix said. “He’ll be given a room and house elf for the duration of initiate training and selection. Afterwards…” she trailed off, treating Harry to the loveliest of Black sneers.

“He’ll be expected to find his own accommodations,” Voldemort finished.

Bellatrix nodded, before peering questioningly at Harry once more. “Your name?”

Before Harry could answer, Voldemort cut in once more. “Hadrian Gaunt.”

_Gaunt…_

He glanced at Voldemort curiously, wondering what could have possible inspired him to give Harry his mother’s maiden name.

_Could he possibly think…? But no._

Bellatrix seemed to have recognized the family name as well, for she threw Harry an assessing look.

“No _wonder_ the Black wards didn’t recognize him. The Gaunt family magical signatures were one of the few Ministry records that got lost during the attack of ‘62.”

Harry glanced quickly at the man beside him. No doubt _Lord Voldemort_ had something to do with that.

At Voldemort’s warning look, she bowed down to touch her forehead to her master’s robes.

“I will take him immediately.” Bellatrix dug her nails into Harry’s wrists, already tender from Voldemort’s “uniform” spell, but he stood his ground.

“What about my g—” he began to choke, the effects of the Unbreakable Vow already taking place.

_What about my godson?_

Voldemort spoke for him. “Ah yes. Your _brother,_ Edward Gaunt. He may stay with you.” With a quick jab of his wand, Voldemort summoned a passed-out Teddy and dropped him on ground before Harry.

Quelling his rage at the fact that Voldemort had literally _accioed_ his six-year-old godson, Harry kneeled down and gathered a now-awake, crying, _bleeding_ Teddy into his arms.

His last image of Voldemort for a long time was that of swooping black robes, disappearing into the darkness.

“What about _my wand?_ ” Harry demanded, facing the remaining darkness.

But the only response that met him were the chilling, high-pitched giggles of his new captor.

  

.     .     .

 

Bellatrix walked down the hall, slamming doors open with theatrical swishes of her long, dark wand.

“So, Gaunt. Since you couldn’t rot in the dungeons, you’ll be staying in my blood traitor cousin’s bedroom.”

She slammed open the last door at the end of the hallway, revealing a grand, slightly messy bedroom. Harry entered it, tugging a bandaged Teddy behind him, and was immediately overcome by sensations of _familiarity_ and _home._

At the center of the room was a large, red bed that had a carved headboard. The walls of the room were covered with so many pictures and posters—Gryffindor banners, bikini-clad Muggle girls, muggle motorcycles—that the wallpaper was barely visible.

Near the tall window with long maroon curtains, was a desk covered in letters, photos, and... motorcycle parts.

_Sirius._

“Horrid, isn’t it?” Bellatrix drawled, misinterpreting Harry’s stunned look. “All that bloody Gryffindor red could incite a heart attack… ”

What could he say?

He had stayed in Sirius’s bedroom for the last five years.

He'd lived in the Black Manor since the Final Battle, raising Teddy there.

“... And those are the horrible pictures of _naked—_ worse, _muggle—_ women we never managed to get out because of _course, the blood traitor_ stuck them on with a _permanent sticking charm_ _…”_

And they never _would_ come off, Harry remembered fondly, thinking back to his own struggles with trying to remove them...  

A little past his toddler years, Teddy had continued to sleep with Harry to chase away nightmares. One time, Harry had woken up to find him staring curiously at the “weird girls who forgot to wear clothes.”

Red-faced, Harry had shooed Teddy away before attempting to remove the pictures for the rest of the day…

And then moment he had, Harry stuck them right back on with a Permanent Sticking charm. He hadn’t wanted to change the room… had felt this strange urge to preserve as it was.

 

Now, Harry walked forward, running his hands across the scarlet satin covers…

 _God,_ even the blankets still smelled like him. Like _wet dog_ and…  something else Harry had never been able to decipher _._

He swallowed the lump in his throat.

Bellatrix had continued to rant. “We haven’t even touched this bedroom since he left…”

_Since he left…_

Harry turned abruptly back, looking Bellatrix directly in the eye. “When did he leave?”

Bellatrix sneered. “Three years ago. The summer of ‘76, right after his fifth year. Couldn’t handle the,” her voice went high with sarcasm, “ _pressure to become something he would regret for the rest of his life._ Weakling… ”

Harry gasped, curling his hands tightly around one of Teddy's.

Sirius was nineteen years old and very much _alive_. Just like...

_His parents._

_The rest of the Marauders._ _Dumbledore._

_They're alive. They're here. They're—_

Harry quickly cut that stream of thought, holding back his emotions before they went completely haywire and took over him.

Instead, he allowed his mind to race with possibilities.

“When’s the next mission?” Harry asked. He had to get out there somehow, get out there and _contact_ them and—

Bellatrix laughed meanly. “Mission? Gaunt, missions are only for those who _prove_ themselves worthy during training.”

 _Training._ That term again.

The concept of Death Eater initiate training was so disturbing. But, at the height of Voldemort’s power, it made sense that some system like that would exist.

Bellatrix stared down her nose at him, radiating her natural sense of superiority. “You don’t _have_ any missions.”

 _Yet,_ Harry promised.

He would become the best goddamn Death Eater in training if it meant meeting _saving_ his loved ones in reality.

Bellatrix made for the door, before looking over her shoulder once more. “And until you prove yourself, you’re stuck here. No apparating against the wards, and no leaving your room for anything besides training…” Bellatrix smiled menacing, “ unless you want to get into trouble.”

She closed the door, unaware that Harry already planned to disregard the rules.

 

Trouble was bound to find him anyways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good or bad?  
> Is there something I should add?  
> Let me know  
> by commenting below!  
>   
> (Please appreciate this rhYME and take the tIME to comment! xD )


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm amazed by the all the supportive responses I've gotten! Thank you so, so much - enjoy this extra long chapter :)

_Two months later_

Harry spat blood furiously, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as he stood up. He’d been backed into a corner of the dueling ring, and the dim lights of the stadium weren’t helping him gain his bearings.

Thorfinn Rowle grinned viciously back at him, twiddling his wand between the tips of his thick, meaty fingers. He was tall and brawny, with a headful of blonde curls that screamed of Viking descent.

“Give up?” Rowle grunted out, smugness clear in his voice.

“Never,” Harry growled back. His blood boiling at the statement, he shot a stunning spell at the brawny blonde, following up with a quick succession of disarming spells.

But Rowle continued to block them, side-step them, avoid them whatsoever. “You’re never going to get me with such _defensive_ spells,” he spoke, his tone derisive.

 _We’ll see about that,_ Harry thought, narrowing his eyes in concentration as he began to shoot spells faster, and _faster._ He began to pour more power into spells, a risky move that would require him to catch Rowle before he tired out.

And before he knew it, for the fourth or fifth time since he’d started Death Eater training, Harry was slipping back into Auror zen mode. He’d quit being an Auror nearly three years ago—when Andromeda died, and Teddy had been left with no other family to care for him except Harry—and it was a phase of his life Harry had long-since buried and nearly forgotten.

But at the moment, it seemed that those two years of Auror training in the years following the Final Battle had definitely paid off.

Harry’s wrists were flickering with Seeker-like rapidity, just like the rest of him. His spells now walked the fine line of legality as his mentality shifted, as he began to view Rowle as the _enemy_ he was. They began to gain more accuracy, more complexity, more power.

More _speed._

 _Impedimenta… Incarcerous… Expelliarmus…_ _Locomotor Mortis…_

Speed had always been Harry’s strength. At eleven, he’d been perpetually running away from Dudley’s gang, somehow managing not to get caught. At fourteen, his speed on a broomstick had enabled him to outrace the Hungarian Horntail during the First Task.

At nineteen, speed had become Harry’s strength as an Auror and dueler, followed closely by his power.

Rowle stumbled from the power of Harry’s last spell, his legs locking together and completing his fall.

 _Petrificus Totalus_ , Harry shot nonverbally, and Rowle stopped struggling, his wand still clutched in his hand. His eyes practically bulged as Harry stalked towards him.

“ _Expelliarmus,”_ Harry whispered, and Rowle’s wand silently slid into his unoccupied palm, colder and heavier than his own wand. Rowle’s head slumped back against the floor in defeat, chest heaving.

 _Victory._ Three times in a row, now.

Harry looked up, across all of the other occupied dueling rings, towards the Death Eater Leaderboard that was fixed at the high end of the dueling stadium. He waited, watched with satisfaction as the leaderboard magically updated, sliding his name upwards.

_No. 55: Hadrian Gaunt._

Good. But not nearly good enough.

He’d gone up 163 ranks in the last two months by dueling and practicing tirelessly.

Harry’s eyes skimmed up the list, finding names that were most familiar to him, names that filled him with _dread despair fury—_

_No. 2: Bellatrix Lestrange._

_No. 3: Severus Snape._

_No. 7: Lucius Malfoy._

_No. 9: Regulus Black._

_No…_

Biting his lip, Harry continued to work down a list of rankings he’d already memorized twice that day. Not like he needed to: the top twelve Death Eaters—those he found most familiar from his own time—always seemed to fall within the same twelve spots. They would sometimes switch spots, moving and up and down. But he’d never seen any of them dip below _No. 12._

Harry clenched his right hand around his own wand once, twice, not taking notice as healers swarmed his ring, casting spells to re-enervate Rowle. One of them came to Harry’s side, eradicating bruises and wounds across his arms and shoulders with systematic expertise.

A sigh escaped Harry. He had to admit: the Death Eater system and network in 1979 put the 1990’s-version of the Order of the Phoenix to shame. It was well-organized, fully-staffed not only with the offensive duellers Harry typically associated with the title “Death Eater,” but also with healers, potioneers, etc. All of them loyal to Voldemort.

And the 24-hour-on-display leaderboard was practically a pile of galleons for Death Eater-Slytherins desperate to prove themselves.

God, what a clever set-up. Fucking Voldemort. Maybe Harry would take a few organizational pointers from the man for handling the Order of the Phoenix… for when he managed to find them. Somehow.

The small print at the bottom of the leaderboard was the most important piece to his plan.

_Upon reaching rank 20, consideration and application for missions and Inner Circle status will begin immediately._

Harry released a huge breath, turning his attention away from the leaderboard… which, by this point, had to be engraved in his mind. All the way down to its finest print.

Then he noticed the other Death Eaters watching him, their identities hidden by the white masks and black hoods draped over their faces. Some look troubled, others awed.

“... _so fast._ Impossibly fast.”

“... and quite a bit of power too.”

Harry turned away from them, doing his best to ignore them even as their stares caused him discomfort.

He wasn’t trying to attract attention. Quite the opposite, in fact. The fact that he’d been climbing ranks fast was definitely not helping, but that was inevitable. He’d just have to… keep his distance from the Death Eaters, for now.

Harry tended to gravitate towards having a one-track mind. Right now, it was focused on getting himself and Teddy _out_ of here, as soon as possible. And afterwards, it would be focused on saving his dead-now-alive family and friends.

Suddenly, all of the Death Eaters began filing out for lunch. Harry added _discipline_ and _schedule_ to his mental checklist of how to improve the Order.

As the dueling stadium became emptier and the lights dimmed, Harry fingered the portkey slung around his neck. It was a green snake pendant, courtesy of the Dark Lord—who had claimed it was the Gaunt family emblem.

It was also the port-key that enabled him to travel back and forth between his room with Teddy at the Black Manor, and the Death Eater training facilities. The only two places in the world that Harry was allowed to be in currently.

Harry paused his slow stride, the dreaded, humiliating words to activate the portkey on the tip of his tongue when another thought struck him, causing his hand to fall away from the snake pendant.

Teddy wouldn’t even be at home for lunch. It was a week day, so he, too, would be on a _schedule_ at Death Eater Child Care, where young wizards and witches learned magic and “built connections” along the way.

Harry blinked, feeling—not for the first time—that he was a little out of depth while following the Death Eater schedule. It controlled Teddy and him, leaving them very little free will for something as spending lunch together.

_Also planned, most likely._

Fighting the unease that had once more begun to plague him, Harry headed for the cafeteria. With a flick of his wrists, the white mask was removed from his face, leaving Harry only wearing his Death Eater robes.

 

.     .     .

 

As usual, Harry sat by himself, swallowing down the pasta and salad with an enthusiasm he hadn’t anticipated. Dueling really did take a lot out of him these days, Harry mused. Along with his recent return to the gym two weeks ago—

The distinct clank of a tray slamming down on the table in front of Harry startled him. Stiffening, he flicked his angry gaze upwards.

But Harry’s mouth, instead of spewing hopefully-intimidating nonsense meant to drive off unwanted strangers, merely hung by his jaw.

The man had shiny, black waves of hair down to his chin, and piercing gray eyes that struck Harry with a painful intimacy. High cheekbones, elegant features, and the same clean-cut jawbone…

But _no._ The jaw was softer, the face thinner and mouth straighter than what Harry was used to. There wasn’t a single laugh line or wrinkle in sight. Not a single thing about the man’s appearance seemed to give away his personality. He could have been molded from clay, from the tips of his passive eyebrows to his slim, nondescript Seeker’s build much like Harry’s own.

“Regulus Black,” the man introduced himself, and _ah_ , his voice was definitely wrong—all softness where there should have been huskiness.

He raised an eyebrow, “Gaunt, right?” Despite Harry’s lack of response, Black seemed undeterred. “Food’s awful, isn’t it?” he mentioned casually, before digging in.

Harry wouldn’t know. He’d never really been picky about food.

Still, he attempted a dry chuckle… and inadvertently ended up sounding like a dying hippogriff, so he turned it into a cough.

“Er… yeah.” Then, because his response made him feel incompetent, Harry continued on. “Then again, anything tastes good when you’re hungry.”

They continued to eat in silence before Black broke it again, setting his cutlery down.

“I saw you out there,” he spoke, his tone going low and even softer. “You’re pretty good.”

Harry looked up from his food, unable to begin understanding what Black’s motives were. “Thanks?”

Now that he thought about it, it was pretty high praise coming from the—Harry’s eyes flickered to the Leaderboard in the cafeteria— _ninth best Death Eater._

And sure enough, eyes from all over the room were definitely trained on his table, wondering why Sir Regulus Black had come down from his high Round Table—where the _Top Twelve_ Death Eaters sat every single day—to talk to lowly soldier Hadrian Gaunt.

 _Wonderful,_ Harry scowled inwardly, _more attention_.

Then Black began to speak more, and Harry forgot all about others paying attention to him.

“You’re good,” he continued, “very quick on your feet. But… be careful.” Black shot him a sideways glance, filled with curiosity and calculation. “Better, more skilled duelers will notice that you use too many Light magic spells.”

"And what’s wrong with that?” Harry accused defensively.

Black released a small burst of smoother-than-butter laughter, but his voice turned darker, meaner, even as it dipped in volume. “Other than the fact that it makes us look bad, for not using the very magic we are fighting for? You don’t look like one of us.”

“Excuse me?” Harry fingered the edge of his wand at the edge of his sleeve, bristling with terror that he’d somehow _given himself away._

“I mean, you duel…” Black swallowed, looking away. “You duel like an Auror. And even ignoring how fundamentally wrong that is for a Death Eater, that’s dangerous, especially for when we’re on missions.”

Harry stilled, heart thudding. “I’m not an Auror,” he lied convincingly, compelled by the Unbreakable Vow. He’d never thought he’d be so grateful for its existence as he was in this moment.

Black merely rolled his eyes. “Well of course you aren’t. I’m just,” and here, Harry saw the uncertainty that flooded his gray eyes, as Black paused before continuing, “... giving you some advice. On how to improve your,” he tilted his head, considering Harry, “ natural fighting style.”

Then he gave a small, bright smile. “After all, I am _rooting_ for you.”

 _Rooting?_ Harry’s stomach turned somersaults as the meaning of Black’s words sunk in.

_Was there some kind of betting pool going around? About him?_

Damn, he’d really missed keeping under the radar by a long shot. No wonder Harry had failed that stealth section during Auror training years ago.

“Here,” Black spoke, his manner brisker as he slid Harry a star pendant across the table.

“What’s this?” Harry asked, picking it up.

Black shook his head disapprovingly at him. “Not even checking for jinxes before picking up an unknown object? You’ll definitely be needing this—it's access to the Black Libraries. Read up on your spells, offensive magic, and _dark_ magic.”

Black fixed Harry with such a stern look that Harry would later look back on it and marvel at the fact that it belonged to an eighteen-year-old.

Before Harry could spit out something embarrassing like, “Sir, yes, Sir,” Black continued onwards.

“One last thing. If you’re going to keep up the Light magic, at least lay off on your usage of _Expelliarmus._ It makes your fighting style predictable, and predictability is always dangerous. It’s been the downfall of many great duelers.”

With that comforting statement, Black stood up with his tray in hand. His bowl was completely empty, unlike Harry’s… which contained food that, for once, was mostly untouched.

Unfortunately, Black seemed to notice this as well. “Oh, I thought you were hungry?” he asked, all innocence.

Harry felt his eyebrow twitch.

Then Black grinned, gave him a bro-punch on the shoulder—really, the boy never ceased to surprise Harry—before disappearing into the crowd, which was now in the process of leaving the cafeteria all at once because apparently, lunch time was over.

 _Had some bell rung?_ Harry thought with annoyance as he gathered up his food to throw.

A horrifying realization struck him then.

 _Merlin,_ this was definitely like some warped version of Hogwarts.

Death Eater Training? More like, _fucking Death Eater Academy._

It’s almost as if Hogwarts had been Tom Riddle’s true, former home, and that when Voldemort was rejected for the Defense Against Dark Arts position and could no longer stay at Hogwarts, he decided to start his own school where students earned _grades_ in the form of _rankings_ could also get _internships_ in the form of _missions—_

Yeah, no. Harry was definitely overthinking this.

 

.     .     .

 

Later, when people asked Harry what _Regulus Black_ had wanted to say to him, Harry instead told them his theory that the Dark Lord was the Headmaster of Death Eater Academy, and thus, subconsciously fulfilling his inner desire to teach and “craft young minds.”

People left him alone after that.

 

.     .     .

 

After training ended, Harry quickly showered and rushed to go see Teddy. He was in the play and study room, practicing harmless spells with other children. A couple of children were zooming left and right on toy brooms that didn’t go more than two feet above the ground.

“See? He’s safe,” the high, whiny, exasperated voice came from behind him, and Harry spun around. “As _usual._ And before you ask if he’s been getting along with the other,” the tall, blonde girl made bunny ears out her fingers, “ _Death Eater offspring,_ might I remind you that _you_ are also a Death Eater before I answer that, _yes,_ he is getting along _splendidly_ with them.”

At sixteen years old, Narcissa Black was far too talkative and much less evil than Harry would have ever imagined her to be. If he hadn’t been able to see it earlier, Harry was definitely able to see the clear personality-resemblance between Mrs. Malfoy and her future son now.

Narcissa was also, as she has complained to him multiple times already, the current caretaker of the children until she went back to Hogwarts for the school year.

“—And it’s just too much work, alongside summer homework and Solstice preparations—I’m _definitely_ informing Father of this—oh! And by the way,” Narcissa added, after recounting Teddy’s whole day from start to end with dispersals of eye rollings, and following up with her own first-world problems, “Good job today.”

Harry blinked, looking up from the back of Teddy’s head. “Huh?”

“Good job knocking Andromeda’s ex-fianceé off his high pedestal.”At Harry’s blank look, Narcissa clarified once more, “Rowle.”

As that piece of information settled in Harry’s brain, she added hastily, “Andromeda _hated_ him. It's part of why she... " Narcissa trailed off, discomfort clear on her face.

 _It's part of why she ran off with Ted Tonks,_ Harry finished in his mind.

"Well, anyways. When it comes to pureblood marriages, of course,” Narcissa's voice grew softer, “not everyone can share the same good fortune as _me._ ”

She smiled, lost in her own daydreams, looking eerily like Luna Lovegood.

Harry quirked an eyebrow. "You know, Malfoy's a good eight years older than you." Nothing remotely romantic about that.

Narcissa treated him to a look cold enough to freeze the Sahara. " _So?"_

… Smiling placatingly, Harry quickly fetched Teddy from the playroom, bidding Narcissa farewell before exiting the room and finding an abandoned alcove.

Face already turning slightly red, Harry fingered the snake pendant Voldemort had given him and whispered, “ _Riddle’s,”_ port-keying himself and Teddy back to their bedroom.

Harry continued to frown back in the safety of his room. _God,_ Voldemort must have thought himself so clever when he came up with the port-key password... must have found so much pleasure in being able claim fucking _ownership_ over another one of his “pawns” in a way that no except said pawn would understand.

 _It wasn't like,_ Harry thought viciously, _Voldemort was even aware of what Harry truly was, what he would be truly capable of doing to him._

He fell asleep stroking Teddy’s hair, overwhelmed by how fast everything was moving despite the fact that he’d already wasted two months here. Harry was disappointed that he hadn’t gotten to see Teddy’s first successful performance of a spell— _lumos—_ like Narcissa had recounted today. He was dissatisfied with his own progress up the D.E. Leaderboard, despite the late-nighters he’d pulled practicing, determined to be the best.

 _Oh Teddy,_ Harry sighs, grasping clumps of his own hair as he ran a hand through them. _I hope I’m doing the right thing. For both of us._

 

.     .     .

  

And just like that, one more month passed.

The next month wasn’t so different from Harry’s last two. By day, Harry was training, continuing to climb ranks at a speed that amazed others. Sometimes, Voldemort would slip into stadium to watch, and Harry would feel his adrenaline spike as he blasted his opponent with even stronger spells… the desire to _make an impression_ burning within him.

But Voldemort would merely watch from the shadows in silence. Not a word had passed between them since the day of Harry's induction.

At night, Harry would lie awake in bed. Thinking. Plotting. Practicing his occlumency, waiting for the day Voldemort decided to let go of the little mercy within him, to give up the little advantage Harry could provide for him _sane,_ and tear through Harry’s mind to quell his thirst for knowledge of the future.

It was draining so much effort, to be so _constantly on edge._

And so, little by little, Harry began to let go.

Instead of lying awake imagining his nightmares coming to life, he would sneak down to the Black Libraries for some midnight reading. It was during like these moments that he wished he had Hermione and Ron with him again. God, he really missed them. 

 _Time travel. Unbreakable Vows. Reminiscent horcruxes. Occlumency. Portkeys._ There were so many questions to answer, so many problems Harry had to solve. He spent many nights in the library, running his fingers over the book bindings in his efforts to find the right book, skimming the pages until his eyes would droop dangerously.

But, as those many library nights had taught him, Harry didn’t have nearly enough time, direction, or _background_ knowledge to figure anything out by himself.

During lunch, Black— _Regulus_ began to sit next to him more often, recommending new books and topics for reading and discussing them with him, sometimes even critiquing Harry’s dueling style. Occasionally, Narcissa would join them on her days off, resulting in the most interesting of conversations.

“The _sorrow,_ ” Regulus began dramatically in a rare moment of silly humor, his eyes fluttering, his voice pitched higher, “of not being able to attend the Annual Carrow Ball. Oh, the _horror._ ” For good measure, he placed a delicate hand upon his chest.

Harry chuckled at his antiques as Narcissa swatted Regulus on the shoulder. “— _Oh_ hush. It’s true—I never ended up going to the ball, and I'm quite depressed about it.” Her voice dropped to a petulant grumble. “However, Bella and Andy, who _were_ of age at the time, did go.”

At this, Harry couldn’t hold back his laughter at Narcissa’s face. It was just so _sad._

Harry tsked exaggeratedly, shaking his head. “The _woes_ of being the youngest child. Always missing out on all the excitement, eh?”

At this, both Regulus and Narcissa shot him identical sharp looks, complete with the slight downtick at the right corner of their mouths. Harry merely grinned, leaning back against his chair and crossing his arms.

“And I suspect you’re the oldest?” Regulus grumbled, turning to face Harry.

“Well, more like—” _More like he was an only child._ Harry’s mouth had continued to move, but no words came out. A pressure began to build around his throat, his eyes beginning to water. After a few moments of struggling against his own body, Harry grabbed for his glass of water and began chugging it.

Harry was well aware of the way Regulus was staring at him now, shock clear on his features. He shifted his eyes down towards his fascinating Caesar Salad, refusing to meet the piercing, questioning gray eyes across from him.

Narcissa, of course, hadn’t noticed. “Well, of course he is. He’s got a younger brother!”

Thankfully, Regulus fell for that distraction, eyes widening. “Have you, now?” Curiosity was evident in his voice. After all, it had been a month since they'd begun hanging out during lunch breaks, and Regulus still knew next to nothing about Harry's personal life. Or where he came from.

“Er…” Harry uttered monotonically. Unfortunately, Teddy was another topic Harry was cautious to discuss with Death Eaters, even if they happened to be his friends.

_His. Friends._

Harry’s mind was reeling with the implication of his realization. But before he could even begin to acknowledge the contradictory panic and warmth it gave him in the pit of his stomach, Narcissa continued to speak.

“Oh, _yes._ Edward Gaunt! I watch over him at the D.E. Child Care, and he’s the most adorable little boy. And he happens to be a Metamorphmagus!”

“That’s brilliant.” Regulus grinned, impressed. “If I recall correctly, I’m pretty sure Metamorphagi run in the Black blood lines as well?

“Oh yes, but we haven’t presented one for generations.”

Narcissa fixed Harry with that same look of half-exasperation, half-fondness. “And of course, Hadrian is one of those _overprotective_ brothers who greets Edward with a hug every time he picks him up and refuses to leave without an in-depth description of Edward’s day.”

Harry felt his ears reddening with embarrassment. “ _Overprotective?_ That’s a bit of stretch—”

“Don’t even _try_ denying it.” Narcissa shook her head, smiling as she finally began to eat her salad. “Honestly—if this is how you are as a brother, I’m reluctant to imagine how you would be as a _father._ ”

Harry spluttered, but Regulus saved him the embarrassment of having to reply.

Instead, Regulus was gazing at Harry, more subdued than usual.

“No need to justify yourself.” Regulus tilted his head sideways. “The fact that you care so much for your younger brother… it’s admirable.”

Then the stern, gray-eyed man smiled, slowly but surely, before began to eat as well.

_It’s admirable._

Harry ducked as he felt the heat in his ears spread across his cheeks, even as pleasure filled him with warmth.

God, Harry had always been one to crave approval hadn’t he? Or maybe it was just the way Regulus looked… reminding so much of the _godfather_ Harry had once craved to please above all others. But even so, Regulus and Narcissa… they were…

_They were his friends._

Harry blinked, finally allowing himself a couple of moments to think of how utterly screwed he was.

Then, almost at once, he found himself smiling, watching with contentment as Regulus swiped a piece of bread from Narcissa’s plate, provoking her into hitting him again in the most unladylike manner.

 _Yes._ Harry thought, with a warm conviction that was strengthening by the second. _They’re my friends, now. Even if their futures dictate something completely different._

Right then, Narcissa looked up and stopped berating Regulus, her gaze focused on a point behind Harry.

“Oh, good! You’re here.”

She smiled warmly at Harry. “Hadrian, Regulus and I have been wanting to introduce you to a friend of ours for a while.”

Apprehension began to grip Harry once more.

“ _Who?_ ” Harry asked. He twitched his head backwards to see who it was, but it turned he hadn’t needed to.

Within a flash, the tall, hooded man behind him had appeared at the other side of the table, smoothly seating himself next to Narcissa. With a subtle flicker of his wrist, the man’s mask and hood came off.

The man’s features were severe yet young, black strings of hair falling around his gaunt face. His deep black eyes, darker and colder than a winter night, seemed to bore holes into Harry.

The look on his face was pure calculation, mixed in with the subtlest hint of distrust.

Regulus smirked. “The man who’s been betting against you.”

 

Severus Snape.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Character Ages:**  
>  I had no idea about the ages of characters during this time period so I made random guesses.  
> Basically how I imagined it was:  
> Narcissa: 16  
> Regulus: 18  
> Sirius/Snape(the whole Marauder gen): 19  
> Harry/Andromeda: 21  
> Bellatrix + Everyone Else: Older  
> ... Which means that according to my own story timeline, Tonks will be about the same age as Harry in the future of this AU.  
> I'm planning to have Andromeda be disowned in about... a year. Max two.  
> Yeah, sorry for messing up the timeline flow. It just made everything for the flow of the story easier.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello—thanks for your patience! 
> 
> One thing: I was asked about an updating calendar. I can't say anything definitive for now. But with midterms over, I definitely plan to update over Thanksgiving and a LOT over Christmas Break—especially since Harry's interactions with Sirius + the rest of the Marauaders will just make everything so much more interesting to write. ;)  
> (Then maybe I'll try making an updating calendar?)
> 
> Enjoy and let me know your thoughts or feedback!

_Regulus smirked. “The man who’s been betting against you.”_

_Severus Snape._

Harry stared at Snape with bated breath, waiting for the man to speak. He felt overwhelmed as he took in the black curtain of hair, gaunt features, hooked nose… all he could think of was _Snape dying on the floor, blood oozing from the snake bite in his neck, his black eyes filled with so much emotion as reached out, calling, “Harry,” attempting to use his last few breaths to spill his memories, his deepest desires, his true intentions—_

But this Snape was so much younger, and his black eyes were emotionless as ever. The cruel twist of his mouth was so familiar and yet, so much harsher than Harry remembered.

He hadn’t yet betrayed the prophecy to Voldemort and turned into a double-agent. At this point in time, Snape was utterly loyal to the Dark Lord. And unlike Regulus or Narcissa, he had not been pressured to join the Death Eaters by his family; he had joined because he thirsted for the Dark Arts, because he loved it with a passion to rival the Dark Lord’s.

Snape tilted his head to the side, like a snake observing his prey.

_Dangerous._

As Snape continued to stare silently at him, Harry let out a nervous chuckle.

“But why would anyone be betting against me?” He glanced at Snape curiously, struggling to contain his emotions.

Snape arched a sardonic eyebrow, before deigning to break his silence.

“Why indeed, Gaunt? I’m sure I’m not the only one who finds the sudden induction of a completely _unknown, unheard of_ wizard suspicious.”

Regulus coughed uncomfortably, and Narcissa pursed her lips. “ _Now,_ Sev—”

“It’s fine, really!” Harry interrupted, before eyeing Snape again. “I understand. I haven’t exactly been going around spilling the details of my personal life. Then again, I’m not an anomaly—many of the Death Eaters seem to have hidden, mysterious pasts… ”

Harry quirked a challenging eyebrow back at Snape, as if to say, _Isn’t that right, Mr. Half-Blood Prince?_

Snape scowled back at him as if he could hear Harry’s taunting thoughts. Seconds later, his assessing eyes were narrowing further into slits…

Harry abruptly looked down at his food, frantically began building up his mental walls as he spooned another bite.

Not one to be deterred, Snape leaned forward until his face was merely two feet from Harry’s, his elbows digging into the desk on either side of his tray. Harry ignored the burning sense of Snape’s eyes on him, eyes flickering between Narcissa and his incredible delicious meal.

“Hadrian Gaunt,” Snape uttered, as if testing how the name slipped over his tongue.

Harry refused to give in and stare back at Snape. He would not give him open access to his mind.

“So you’ve heard about me?” Harry said, after leisurely swallowing a bite. “I’m honored, Number Three.”

Snape’s mouth curled in disdain at the nickname, and his voice came out ugly and spiteful. “Of course, I’ve heard about you. The boy who relies on pure instinct— _luck—_ over actual skill, using the most rudimentary of spells I’ve ever witnessed in a duel.”

Narcissa bit her lip, placing a hand on Snape’s arm, but nothing would budge him from his position.

Harry set his spoon down, glaring back at Snape. “I’d say luck has gotten me pretty far, if the way I’ve been climbing the leaderboard says anything!”

_If the way he’d defeated Voldemort several times said anything._

Snape gave a low, mocking chuckle. “Using what, your superior dodging skills?”

Harry crossed his arms, growing defensive. “Yes, it’s called being _athletic._ ” Here, he grinned, leaning back in his chair. “Ever played quidditch, Snape?”

Two faint red spots appeared on Snape’s cheeks. “Quidditch and uninspired nicknames. I’m definitely starting to see what kind of person you are.”

Regulus winced, but Harry paid no attention. He shot to his feet, hand clenching around the wand contained in the holster of his sleeve, fury blurring his vision more than usual.

Some things just never changed. Snape was still a _prick,_ and the fact that he’d had room for one person in his shriveled black heart did nothing to excuse his utter prejudice.

“Are you really judging me based on my ability to play a sport?” Harry spoke in a raised voice, his head steaming. Merlin, this was just like First Year all over again. If not a lack of Potion’s knowledge or his parentage, then his abundance of quidditch experience was the problem. “ _Jealous_ , Snape?”

But instead of rising to the bait again, Snape merely leaned back in his seat, shaking his head in a parody of parental disappointment. “Temper, temper. What are you, a Gryffindor?”

Every part of Harry was screaming to say, “ _Yes,”_ with pride. But many ingrained experiences with his throat closing due to the Vow, nearly alerting Regulus to the curse he was under, held Harry back.

In his momentary pause, Harry took a moment to look around, realizing that many of the cafeteria’s occupants had become their audience. Narcissa and Regulus—who had long ago given up on preventing conflict—held mirroring positions, with their heads leaning against their hands. For once, they looked like they were related.

Subdued by his own guilt at causing such a commotion, Harry sat back down in his seat.

“I didn’t attend Hogwarts,” he spoke dully instead, looking down as he recited the background Voldemort had assigned to him. “I was homeschooled until my parents’ death, after which my education ceased.” Harry’s teeth were gritted by the end of the sentence.

Snape regarded him in silence, ever unreadable. Even Narcissa and Regulus’s gazes burned into him with a similar curiosity.

Then Snape spoke once more, his tone calculating.

“There are two kinds of Death Eaters—those who join the cause to rid the world of muggleborns, and those who join it to legalize Dark Magic.” Snape shot him a narrow-eyed look. “So where do you lie, Gaunt? Because it’s definitely not the latter for you.”

“Why do you say that?” Harry asked calmly, internally desperate to know what Snape had seen in him, if he’d seen _through_ him.

Snape gave him an almost pitying look. “Because the only spell you ever seem to know is _Expelliarmus_ or some light magic equivalent of it. Perhaps as a product of your less-than-adequate education, but nevertheless, it’s unacceptable by Death Eater standards… ”

Regulus coughed lightly, radiating vibes of _I Told You So._

Harry ignored him, giving Snape a tired look. “There’s nothing wrong with using a light spell from time to time. What would you know about spells anyways?”

Regulus stiffened beside him. Narcissa paused with the spoon in her mouth. But even without the hints, Harry knew he’d said the wrong thing the instant it left his mouth.

Snape’s mouth curled once more, assuming its usual stance.

“Gaunt, I _create_ spells.”

Harry winced at the familiar piece of knowledge, memories of _Sectumsempra_ and a bloody Draco flitting through his mind, but Snape continued to elaborate.

“I’m the Dark Lord’s designated spellcrafter. And the only reason I’m here is because, _congratulations Mr. Gaunt,_ you’ve officially made it into consideration for missions and the Inner Circle. You’ll be duelling me a week from now to determine your fate.”

He stood up, flicking his tray into nonexistence, before settling a cold, penetrating glare upon Harry.

“Try not to be too much of a disappointment.”

With that, in utterly Snape-like manner, he swept his black cloaks around himself like a great bat and disappeared into the bustling crowd.

  

.     .     .

  

Training continued by day, but Harry’s midnight visits to the library only grew more frequent.

The details of his plans were finally beginning to flesh out. While on a mission, Harry would find a way to get in contact with Order members, peacefully, somehow. As soon as he managed to convince them that he was on their side, he would be taken to their headquarters, where he would then summon Teddy to himself using the portkey…

Which was one of the reasons why he’d been spending so much time at the library.

He’d finally figured out how to hack Voldemort’s amulet so that it could act like a “reverse” port-key, creating another portal that would transport Teddy to wherever Harry was. It would be linked to Teddy’s unique magical signature as a metamorphmagus. All it required was a different magical word.

It had taken Harry a full two months to create it, and he’d finally gotten it to work.

Now, if only he could get Teddy to wear the amulet.

“— But Harry! I don’t want to!” Teddy cried, before dropping to his knees and beginning to crawl under the bed.

“It’s for your protection!” Harry spoke, frustration beginning to hit him as he pulled Teddy out from underneath. “And only for two days!”

Two days, during which the amulet would absorb Teddy’s magical signature. Then Harry would keep it on himself until he was safely at the Order’s side, at which point he would summon Teddy to himself.

In Harry’s firm grip, Teddy began to cry in earnest. “But it’s sca-ary. I d-don’t like snaaaakes.” Fat tears began rolling down his cheeks, his hair turning a pale shade of light brown.

Harry’s heart clenched as he opened his fist, peering at the green-eyed snake pendant in his hand. It was rather creepy, now that he’d looked at it long enough. The green eyes seemed to glow at times…

“Me neither, Buddy.” He muttered under his breath.

Harry checked the silencing spells on his room once more before wrapping Teddy completely in his arms, leaning Teddy’s head against his shoulder.

“Teddy,” he whispered, “I’m sorry. I know this has been hard for you, and you’ve been such a strong boy. But when I escape, I need to be able to use this necklace to portkey you to my side. No one can protect you once I’m gone.”

Teddy whimpered, but Harry looked up, facing him as he continued on. “Listen, Teddy. The more you wear this necklace, the stronger its magic will be—it’ll be easier for me to keep you by my side later on. So, can you please wear this necklace?”

The young metamorphagus sniffled a bit more before wiping his sleeve across his eyes. “Okay.”

Harry sighed in relief, dropping his arms from around Teddy’s shoulders. “Good boy.”

And once the port-key had absorbed Teddy’s magical signatures, Harry would be able to activate it just by holding it saying, “Never Riddle’s.”

He smirked to himself, rather liking his activation key.

_Just to prove a point, Riddle._

“Can I come to your big duel on Friday?” Teddy asked suddenly, clutching the portkey in his hands as he looked up at Harry again.

Harry blinked away thoughts of the portkey, frowning. “Where did you hear about _that?”_ Sure, Harry hadn’t gone out of his way to keep it from Teddy, but…

“Cissy told me!” Teddy jumped up, gripping Harry’s arm.

Harry sighed, removing Teddy’s hand. “Teddy, it won’t be safe—”

“ _Please_?”

“Teddy—”

“I’ll be safe with Reg-less!”

“Yeah, but—”

“C’mon!”

Harry groaned, stuffing his head into Teddy’s stomach and causing Teddy to giggle uncontrollably. His hair flickered rapidly between pink and blue, his eyes squeezing shut as he wrapped his small arms around Harry's head in mock protest.

As Teddy’s laughter permeated the room, his gentle sounds seemed to make the candlelight more golden and the flames burn warmer.

“ _Fine._ But you better listen to every word Regulus tells you... ”

  

.     .     .

  

The night before the duel, Harry was restless, the thoughts swirling in his head averting any chances of sleep. Pulling the bedcovers aside and tucking them around Teddy, he stood up and snuck out, feeling like his Hogwarts-self past curfew (sans the invisibility cloak). But this time, he turned away from the direction of the library and decided to pay a visit to the Black tapestry room.

When he entered, floating candles magically lit themselves, and Harry couldn’t hold back a gasp. It was like the enchanted ceiling of Hogwarts, only better. The walls, floor, and ceiling were enchanted to look like the night sky, making Harry feel as if he were floating in it.

That certainly hadn’t been present when Harry visited it in the future.

Along one side of the room were countless medals and trophies that had brought honor and esteem to the family.

A tapestry was sprawled across the other wall, looking immensely old and faded; nevertheless, a golden thread shined brightly enough to highlight the paths across the family tree, weaving in and out of the dark brown tree stitched upon it. Large words at the very top of the tapestry read:

The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black

“Toujours Pur”  

Many floating images of faces were curled up in its branches. _Cedrella. Andromeda. Bellatrix. Orion._

Harry stopped when he found a certain black, charred spot on the tapestry.

_Sirius Black III._

For a few moments, he merely stared at it. Then, as if compelled by some force beyond him, Harry reached out and ran his fingers over the name, over the burnt spot.

Pushing off the wall, he turned to the other, suddenly wanting to know more about the man who had been—who would become—his godfather. Harry grabbed a a floating candle from the air and held it to the glass cabinets on the other side, scanning over medals and trophies until he finally, surprisingly, found something.

_Hogwarts Dueling Champion, 1975_

_Sirius Black III_

Harry’s eyes widened in surprise. He’d known Sirius and his dad had been good duellers—after all, they had become Aurors—but to win a tournament that only occurred once every thirty years…

“What are you doing here?” a sharp voice demanded.

Chest thudding, Harry spun around with his wand drawn, only to meet someone in a very similar position.

With one eyebrow raised, Regulus called him out, “Breaking rules the night before your major duel? If _that_ doesn’t remind me of…”

He trailed off, his eyes dimming and darting to where Harry’s had been looking through the glass cases.

This time, Harry knew they were thinking about the same person.

“Tell me about him,” Harry spoke quietly, urgency shining through. He could see Regulus’s desire to, and it matched perfectly with Harry’s longing to learn more. “Your brother. Sirius Black.”

Regulus turned to him, eyes suspicious, his mouth opening as if to question him… but then his shoulders slumped, as if all the energy had been sucked out of him.

He released a dry, humorless chuckle. “What’s the point? He left. He’s _gone._ ” Still, he sat down on the floor and leaned against the tapestry, his long arms wrapping around his bunched up knees. Harry sat down beside him, watching as Regulus blew out the candle in his hand, causing it to disappear entirely.

Hands free, Regulus put his arms behind his head and leaned back to gaze at the stars before he spoke.

“Sirius was… everything I wished to be, growing up. Handsome, powerful. Intelligent—he always seemed to get good grades without trying.” Regulus bit his lip, as if to choke back a smile. “He was charming too - all the old aunties loved him before he even set foot in Hogwarts.”

Harry chuckled. “How did he manage that?”

Regulus rolled his eyes. “Oh, you know—pranks and parlor tricks. He was always pulling roses from his ear or chocolates from theirs, presenting them to guests with a dramatic flourish. Mum would scold him in front of everyone afterwards, but secretly, I think she was thrilled that her eldest had so much control over his magic at such a young age.”

Harry grinned at the mental image he’d formed, imagining a young boy going from one old lady to the next, animatedly performing tricks. Like a little trick-or-treater.

“He's always been energetic, the life of every party.” Regulus’s eyes softened. “At his core, I believe he is very much a Black.”

Harry reared in surprise as he turned to glance at Regulus, memories of Sirius denouncing his Black heritage flooding him.

“... _Really?_ ”

Regulus shot him a sideways glance. “Well, not in the conventional sense—following the Dark Lord and hating muggleborns. But he has this very defining sense of bravery, _loyalty_ to his friends in the same way we do to family. He would do anything for them, even die for them.”

_“You don’t understand!” whined Pettigrew. “He would have killed me, Sirius!”_

_“THEN YOU SHOULD HAVE DIED!” roared Black, with a terrible fury in his gaunt face. “DIED RATHER THAN BETRAY YOUR FRIENDS, AS WE WOULD HAVE DONE FOR YOU!”_

Harry shivered at the foreboding of Regulus’s statement.

Regulus frowned, the undercurrents of his voice taking a jealous and uncertain turn.

“I’ve always felt like a lesser reflection of him, _envied_ him for being able to defy our mother so easily to do what he wanted. Yes, it took _bravery_ ,”  Regulus voice darkened. “But it also took mounds of arrogance and self-entitlement and indifference, to just up and _leave_ his responsibilities, knowing he was leaving them all to _me-e_.” His voice shook on the last word, and Regulus clenched a fist before knocking it against his chin.

For a moment, he was silent. When he spoke again, his voice was colder and even as ever.

 “Yes, Sirius's flaws definitely evened out his strengths, especially in his later years.”

Despite the dread pooling in his stomach, Harry let his curiosity get the better of him. “What did he do?”

Regulus’s lips curled up in a sneer. “He became the biggest arsehole ever, bullying and scaring Slytherins to shit. They—he and his friends—got away with pranks that were sometimes borderline harmful because Dumbledore and McGonagall would look the other way or dismiss their seriousness.”

Harry recalled memories of Snape’s Pensieve, of Sirius jokingly telling, _daring_ Snape _to follow Lupin through the passage beneath the Whomping Willow…_

Regulus looked down at his hands. “As he grew older, Sirius got more aggressive _._ I don’t know why—perhaps he’d always had it in him. But he emerged from Gryffindor with this definitive, black-and-white view of those considered his “enemies”—and he would go after them with reckless, impulsive abandon.”

_Dumbledore sighed. “Sirius has not acted like an innocent man. The attack on the Fat Lady — entering Gryffindor Tower with a knife — without Pettigrew, alive or dead, we have no chance of overturning Sirius’s sentence.”_

"Like a dog chasing a bone," Regulus muttered quietly to himself.

Harry's eyes widened at the dog reference, but he kept silent. As Regulus talked, puzzle pieces from Harry's past fit with what he heard. He could see Regulus’s pain at Sirius's abandonment, at the way Sirius had treated his peers.

 _But surely,_ Harry shook his head, _Regulus was exaggerating._ After all, it was hard to reconcile this latter, cruel image of Sirius with that of the playful dog who used to follow Harry around, the funny godfather whose barking laughter had warmed him better than any Butterbeer, the brave man who had died for him…

Harry swallowed the lump in his throat.

By all means, Regulus was definitely exaggerating.

“Oh, and I almost forgot,” the young Black heir spoke softly, “to mention the way he treated his _conquests_ back in Hogwarts.”

Harry’s eyes widened, his cheeks flushing a deep red he hoped the darkness hid. “Oh, _no,_ that’s really not necessary—”

He did _not_ need to hear about how his _godfather—_

“He would treat them politely, no doubt, but with such _indifference_ that they would come crying back to _me,_ wondering what they had done wrong.” Regulus shrugged. “In truth, they’d done nothing. Sirius merely got bored of them. It’s like losing the family name gave him an excuse to start acting like some sort of… _rake._ ”

—had gotten more action than him.

Harry winced before sighing and looking away. He could see how _that—_ all the attention he had received—would have only fueled Sirius and his childhood arrogance.

Regulus sat up, running a hand through his hair. He turned towards Harry, a sheepish expression painted upon his face. “Ah, _Merlin_ , that was quite a rant. I’ve never spoken this much in the span of—”

Harry rested a palm on Regulus’s shoulder. “It’s fine. You needed to get it out, and I’m glad I could listen.”

Regulus shot Harry an almost grateful look before looking down at his own hands. “It’s just—the worst thing, “ he began bitterly, “is that I _miss_ him."

With a flick of his wand, Regulus wordlessly performed the Patronus charm... and Harry watched in amazement as a large playful dog emerged from the tip of his wand, circling around both of them. 

"Even now, despite everything, he is one of my anchors." He cut the spell and turned his head away from Harry, facing the darkness. "And I bet he barely even spares a _thought_ for me, the _arrogant, self-righteous bugger._ ”

After a moment, he stood up from the floor, holding out his hand to Harry and pulling him up.

“That is why,” Regulus spoke, his voice once again soft and sweet as he looked at Harry, “I think the way you take care of Teddy is very noble. It’s the same way I wish my brother had treated me.”

He smiled, a sad, sweet smile that churned Harry’s stomach. How many times had Harry wished for an older brother, looking at Ron’s family?

Clearing his throat, Regulus let go of Harry’s hand and stepped back.

“I… sorry.” He gave Harry a look, tainted with annoyance and a touch of... fondness? “There’s something about you that makes me want to spill all of my secrets. You’re dangerous.” Regulus shook his head.

Harry shot him an easy grin. “Spill them all you want.”

With a sardonic glance, Regulus nodded him in the direction of the door. “Maybe after you get some sleep and ace that duel tomorrow. Goodnight.”

"'Night."

Grinning at each other with a strong sense of camaraderie, the two parted at the door.

 

But not before Regulus gave Harry another bro-punch on the shoulder. From behind. _Hard._

“Regulus!” 

The sadistic chuckles of his Death Eater companion echoed down the hallway. 

“ _Tsk. Tsk._ So trusting. How are you ever going to survive as a Death Eater, Mr. Gaunt?” 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *The excerpts/Harry's memories of Sirius towards the end are direct quotes from Prisoner of Azkaban.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m sorry for making you wait so long! :(
> 
> Some edits made to Chapter 5:  
> \- Regulus displays his Patronus to show how much he still cares for Sirius (it's Padfoot)  
> \- Harry keeps the necklace to summon Teddy to himself, rather than Teddy wearing the necklace to port-key to Harry.

.     .     .

 

“In the old days, he had huge numbers at his command; witches and wizards he’d bullied or bewitched into following him, his faithful Death Eaters, a great variety of Dark creatures… "

        ~ Sirius Black, _Order of the Phoenix_

 

.     .     .

  

Harry swung open the doors to the dueling arena and walked forward, flanked by two Death Eaters.

Like the Colosseum, the arena was endlessly vast. Its packed, encircling rows of spectators seemed to climb higher and higher until melting into the pure darkness of the ceiling above, marred only by torches of green fire that marked the start of every row.

It looked like hell.

And at the very center of the arena was a ring surrounded by a nearly transparent, spherical layer of magic—a _force field_ , to prevent magic from harming the audience _._

As Harry’s eyes adjusted to the dim lighting, he took in the volume of the crowd. Death Eaters, Knockturn Alley dwellers, vampires, werewolves, dementors, giants… until now, he hadn’t realized the true extent, the sheer massiveness of Voldemort’s followers during the First War. But now they were all here, the whole despicably bloodthirsty lot, willingly present to witness a show that would quench their deepest of violent urges.

Harry clenched his jaw stubbornly. _Oh, he’d show them all…_

He finally turned away from the crowd as he climbed into the dueling ring, drawing his wand from under his sleeve as he faced Snape. At once, the lights around the ring brightened, revealing their presences, and the audience went wild. Ecstatic. Louder and deafeningly _louder—_

Dead silence.

From his lit throne near the top of the arena, Lord Voldemort had placed a mere finger on his lips.

With all eyes on him, he dramatically spread his arms upwards, hands outstretched.

“Welcome, my loyal followers,” Voldemort uttered, with crisp and aristocratic enunciation. His voice—though rather high and whispery—was pleasant and lilting, a deep contrast to the chilling laughter that had haunted Harry’s nightmares for years.

A hush of greetings and murmurs of the Dark Lord’s name met his words.

“Today, Hadrian Gaunt will be dueling Severus for a place among us.”

Voldemort stared straight into Harry’s eyes as the audience roared to life once more. Blood pounding in his ears, Harry narrowed his eyes right back at Voldemort, fighting the urge to flinch and curl into himself like he had months ago in the Black dungeons.

He had grown used to feeling the burning gaze of Voldemort from the shadows, watching him as he’d practiced and dueled other Death Eater trainees for months. But now he was right there at the top of the arena, gazing down at Harry with that knowing, penetrating look… like a twisted god ready to dispense judgement at any moment.

“To escape the dueling ring, the losing party must either speak the words, ‘I surrender’ or,” Voldemort’s mouth twitched in morbid amusement, “die. Once either occurs, any continuing magic will cease upon the dueling ring.”

Excited chitters accompanied Voldemort’s monologue, but Harry paid no attention.

He glanced at the crowd near Voldemort, catching a familiar pair of green eyes sparkling behind eyeglasses, sitting right beside Regulus and the rest of the Inner Circle.

_Teddy._

If he’d known what a spectacle Voldemort would make out of this, Harry would never have let him come here. But there was no time to change that. Snape was already bowing to him, low and deep, and Harry was supposed to be bowing back—

“ _Bow to death, Harry,” Voldemort said, raising his wand—and Harry felt his spine curve as though a huge, invisible hand were bending him ruthlessly forward, and the Death Eaters laughed harder than ever..._

Gritting his teeth, Harry conquered the demons of his past and bowed back stiffly, reluctant to show weakness.

_"And now you face me, like a man... straight-backed and proud, the way your father died… "_

Even as Harry finished bowing to Snape, his eyes searched for Voldemort. Anger coursed through him, now more than ever, and he resisted the urge to make eye contact with the man.

Harry would avenge his parents. He would save them.

He briefly fingered the amulet in his pocket, finding comfort and determination in the magical signature of his godson, before facing Snape once more.

Snape merely stared back at him, his black eyes as emotionless as the day he’d died.

_"And now—we duel."_

“Begin,” Voldemort uttered, his voice soft yet a thousand times louder than every other noise in the room.

For a moment, it seemed that time had frozen.

 

Harry smirked.

 _Expelliarmus,_ he flung tauntingly at Snape, missing by a hair.

Snape sneered and shot a rapid succession of spells at Harry, who dodged every single one of them.

 _Confringo,_ Harry shot back, missing again. _Ventus,_ he flicked, and a strong gust of wind emerged from the tip of his wand.

Snape stumbled back a step before he countered it, attacking once more. He drew his wand back and waved it as though brandishing a whip, and a long thin flame flew from the tip.

Harry barely had time to put up a shield before the flaming whipcord wrapped itself around him, shield and all. Tightening the grip on his wand, he expanded his shield until the cord broke under the pressure. He swished his wand, _Aqua Eructo,_ and a jet-stream of water headed for Snape’s face before freezing in mid-air. At Snape’s command, it took the shape of an angry waterfowl and rushed back at Harry, only to disintegrate into hundreds of birds at Harry’s _Avis._

The audience went wild. No one had ever withstood _Number Three_ for so long, countering him so precisely and impressively.

The duel continued with Harry dodging defensively, turning Snape’s increasingly complex spells into jokes. But sooner or later, he realized that he would have to play an offensive move to secure his victory.

So Harry summoned some fiendfyre. A line of it cracked down the ring, curling around and enclosing Snape.

 _Snape had wanted him to perform Dark Magic, hadn’t he?_ Harry grinned recklessly, daring Snape to attempt controlling the uncontrollable. Barely within his earshot, the crowd began chanting their names respectively.

“You _idiot!_ ” Snape snarled from behind the sea of fire, backing up against the invisible walls of the forcefield. “We’ll both be killed!”

“You first,” shot Harry back. “Then at least they’ll let _me_ out.”

Their heated dialogue only encouraged the boisterous attitude of the audience. The fire was spreading rapidly in all directions, destroying the ring and ground below them.

Scared for his life and running out of options, Snape pointed his wand at the fiendfyre.

 _“Serpensortia Opugna!”_ Snape bellowed, mutating the fire to take the shape of an enormous serpent.

A slow smile crept up Snape’s face as an accompanying dread filled Harry.

By trapping the fire in the form of a creature, Snape had managed to tame it. More so, any call of _Serpensortia_ rendered the snake obedient to the wishes of its creator.

The fire-born serpent turned its head in Harry’s direction, opening its jaw to let out a furious hiss. It began advancing on Harry, shedding stray flames along the way.

This was it. This would be the monster to end the duel. No possible magic could extinguish it in the time it would reach Harry. And yet, he knew exactly what he needed to do.

“SURRENDER!” Snape yelled above the crackling fire. “SURRENDER NOW!”

“Hah!” Harry scoffed. There was no need to surrender. He had recognized Snape’s spell as a variation of the one he had instructed Draco to perform years ago, during dueling club in his second year.

… and this time, Harry was ready for it.

“Attack _him,”_ he hissed in parseltongue, his voice magnified.

The monstrous serpent paused. Then, slowly but surely, it turned its head towards Snape… who, in turn, stared at Harry, his face having gone completely pale. Even the audience had gone completely silent in watchfulness, the same way it had at Lord Voldemort’s shushing finger.

“ _Yes, Him. Go on, attack him,”_ Harry hissed, egging the serpent on.

_Now this, Justin Finch-Fletchley, is what it looks like to “egg on” a snake._

And just like that, the serpent was roaring once more, advancing in the opposite direction. Every shield Snape put up was torn through, and by now, the firebeast had grown to such monstrous proportions that it could not be mutated into any other form.

There was no escape. Any minute now…  Harry dodged the flames on his own half of the ring, waiting… waiting…

“I surrender,” Snape uttered.

The serpent vanished. Harry released the breath he’d been holding.

The ring returned to its former, pristine state as the force fields came down. The audience was even louder without the barrier, their attention on him even more pronounced, and all Harry wanted to do was escape.

Instead, he found himself walking back towards Snape, holding out hand.

“A Parselmouth,” Snape stated simply, refusing the help.

Harry shrugged.

He stared at Harry a moment longer before shaking his head. Before Harry could turn away from him, Snape gripped his arm tightly and tugged him forward.

“The Dark Lord demands your presence at the Malfoy Manor, today at eight o’clock,” he rasped into Harry’s ear.

Harry froze in confusion. “How do I—what—?”

“The Black House Elf will direct and floo you accordingly.” With that, Snape grabbed his cloak and disappeared into the darkness, leaving Harry to fend for himself against the masses.

He glanced up the many rows to Voldemort’s throne and found soulless black eyes staring right back at him.

Voldemort’s expression was as inscrutable as ever, his angular features drawn sharp around a taut, lipless mouth. Harry could do nothing but repress a shiver at the mere thought of what awaited him.

He grasped at the comforting presence of his amulet as he slipped out of the arena. 

  

.     .     .

 

Regulus caught Harry as he was being led to the fireplace.

“I’ll take it from here, Kreacher.” Regulus’ soft voice sounded.

“Of course, Master,” Kreacher simpered, before promptly waddling off.

As soon as he was out of earshot, Regulus grabbed Harry’s arm, hissing, “You never told me you were a bloody _parselmouth._ ”

“Er… slipped my mind.” Harry lied blank-faced. Regulus did not look amused.

“Bullshit. You… _unbelievable_ … ah. Parseltongue! The only known Parselmouth since the Dark Lord himself.” Regulus shook his head. “No one could stop talking about it—heck, the news has probably already reached that horrible Skeeter lady…”

Harry watched in amusement as Regulus continued to ramble, his hands gesturing in a manner that would put Teddy to shame.

“... But let’s not even get started on _that_ , because we’re already running late.” He flung open the doors to the living room, black powder ready in his palm.

Harry blinked, questioning, “ _We?”_

“For the meeting, of course,” Regulus stated briskly, pulling up his sleeve to flash his Dark Mark at Harry. “Members of the Inner Circle meet weekly. And now that you’re with us,” he smiled at Harry, clapping a hand on his shoulder, “You’ll be freed from your ‘house arrest’ and we’ll have loads of fun together!”

Harry’s eyes caught on Regulus’s inner arm once more as he slid his hand off Harry’s shoulder. Before Regulus could move away, Harry caught his wrist and pulled it towards himself, ignoring his exclamation of alarm.

In all his years fighting Voldemort, he’d never been this close to the Mark. Now, Harry stared at it in dual repulsion and fascination. There was a snake emerging from the skull, writhing violently and hissing furiously. The whole mark was pulsing rapidly, leaking a strange, purple essence. It looked painfully gruesome… almost _alive…_

Entranced, Harry reached out a finger and delicately traced the the spine of the snake. At Regulus’s small intake, he stopped and let go, looking up curiously.

“Does it hurt?”

“N-not really.” Regulus peered down at the mark, biting his bottom lip. “Well, sometimes. If I ever resist the call… ”

Harry looked back up at Regulus’s face, watching the way his eyelids drooped demurely as he looked away, the tips of his ears tinged red.

“... Then, yes. It hurts,” he spoke eventually, his voice strangely closed-off and robotic. “But my loyalty to Him far surpasses my pain tolerance, so I bear it.”

Regulus sounded off somehow, as if he was reciting something he’d practiced many times without ever mastering it.

Perhaps, he was.

Harry breathed in sharply as he gripped Regulus’s arm once more, willing him to hold his gaze. “Do you ever regret—?”

“Don’t ask stupid questions,” Regulus cut in coldly, hastily pushing his sleeve back. “And now we’re later than ever.”

He pushed Harry towards the flaming-green fireplace, only to walk right behind him.

Harry pushed back at him, “Two people can’t floo at the same time!”

But Regulus merely wrapped a firm arm around Harry, raising an eyebrow.

“Try me.” With that, he shoved Harry and himself into the flames before uttering, “Malfoy Manor.”

 

.     .     .

  

Fourteen chairs. Thirteen elegant dinner settings lay on the Malfoy’s long rectangular dining table, with dinner yet to be served.

The mood was strangely festive. Banter was being passed around like appetizers, which had just been replenished. As Harry glanced around, he saw many familiar faces from the Second War - the Carrow twins, arguing over something. At the far end of the table, a much-younger-looking Igor Karkaroff was attempting to engage a familiar sallow-faced Death Eater in conversation—with little success, as he seemed to be paying little attention to anything but the food on his plate.

And at its head…

“Please, join us.”

Voldemort glanced at Harry and Regulus with heavy lidded eyes, the tips of his long fingers dancing around the rim of his wine glass.

Regulus took a seat next to Snape as Harry followed him, his hand pushing the nearest chair out…

All chatter ceased as eyes around the hall stared at Harry.

“Such _insolence,”_ Bellatrix rasped from her place at Voldemort’s left, glaring at him. Harry’s hand paused on the chair, slow to realize the error of his ways…

“Indeed,” Voldemort chuckled, before waving a hand carelessly. “But he is an  _honored guest_ today _._ He may sit there… if he chooses.”

The Dark Lord leaned back in his chair, looking utterly at ease as he met Harry’s eyes calmly, peacefully. Waiting.

Stiffly and slowly, Harry pushed back the chair at the foot of the table—which, he’d finally noticed, was directly opposite of Voldemort. He ended up taking the only other available seat, near Lucius Malfoy.

“Good,” Voldemort breathed. “We are all present.” He smiled without lips. “My _true_ family _._ ”

He set his glass down, glancing around at each of his Death Eaters.

“As some of you may remember, the Death Eaters were once known by another name—the Knights of Walpurgis. But, I discarded it, for it reminded me too much of another famed group.”

He paused once more, his eyebrows raised—ever the expectant teacher to his disciples.

“The Knights of King Arthur, spouse of Merlin,” Malfoy answered promptly.

“Correct,” Voldemort intoned, “also known as the Knights of the _Round Table,_ which implied their equal status. And, of course,” he raised his voice, “everything about the Death Eaters, conceptually, defies this—everything down to your _ranks_ and _dining arrangements._ ”

The Dark Lord paused once more, letting his words sink into the minds of his followers. The way he spoke was magnetic, lulling, punctuated at just the right moments. Harry could see why he had attracted such a large following…

Voldemort glanced sideways at Harry, his eyes darkening dangerously in a way that had him tensing once more.

“For example, Hadrian is not equal to me—and must, therefore, never sit in my presence without my permission unless he wishes to die a painful death,” he stated lightly, casually—as if talking about the weather.

Harry’s mouth froze around his spoon. Slowly, his eyes raked over Voldemort’s form. Any illusion of casualness was shattered as soon as Harry spotted the furious, mad glint in his eyes.

The lulling quality of Voldemort's voice vanished as it grew high and cold, chillingly ominous in its rhythm of speaking. 

 

“You don’t sit before I tell you where. You don’t speak unless I speak to you.”  His eyes flashed, lids drooping as he tilted his head slightly upwards. “When I say jump, you—”

“I ask, ‘How high?’” Harry interrupted on impulse, nearly raising an eyebrow at the familiar _muggle_ saying.

Voldemort stared at him like he was the biggest idiot alive, not even bothering to admonish him.

“No. You simply  _ jump.  _ No questions asked.”

His mouth curled unpleasantly as he narrowed his eyes in Harry's direction. “ _I don’t take challenges to my authority lightly, and your behavior today was inexcusable,”_ he hissed in parseltongue. Several followers near him flinched.

Harry bowed his head in submission, quickly replying, “ _Forgive me, my Lord.”_

Within moments, Voldemort’s face had once again resumed its usual mien—unfathomable, save for the calculating, clever glint in his eyes. But the show of parseltongue had evoked priceless reactions from the rest of the Inner Circle. Some, like Bellatrix, appeared to be reverent. But most were scared - Malfoy’s cutlery had clattered softly when it fell from his shaking hands. Snape’s grip had tightened around his glass, his left hand shaking imperceptibly beneath the table.

Ever attentive, Voldemort soaked in the responses and thoughts of his followers.

“And Severus—do not resent Hadrian for his victory over you.”

The man addressed looked up from the swirling contents of his glass.

“But my Lord, he practically _cheated,”_ Snape hissed, treating Harry to a dark glower. “The only reason he won was because of his parseltongue, an ability he kept secret from us all—otherwise, he was completely done for. And,” his spiel gained volume, “everything about his dueling—the lack of Dark Magic, his constant dodging over shielding—defies what it means to be a Death Eater.”

Voldemort’s voice assumed on an assertive tone, “A win is a win.” _End of discussion._ “There is no fairness or morality—only power and strategy. You are all a compilation of strengths and weaknesses, the sum of which foretells your rank here.”

The Dark Lord tilted his head contemplatively in Harry’s direction. He swallowed dryly and stared back down at his plate, feeling trapped and uncertain.

“And on the contrary,” Voldemort spoke, “Harry’s tactics are perhaps exactly what we need. A breath of fresh air—instinct and an element of surprise. He always seems to have something up his sleeve,” He viewed Harry appraisingly. “In that regard, he is very much a Slytherin… even if he never attended Hogwarts.”

_"I stand by what I said before—you would have done well in Slytherin," said the Sorting Hat._

“Hadrian Gaunt. Congratulations on taking Thorfinn Rowle’s place in the Inner Circle. As a result of your competence, I have decided to gift you the Dark Mark—”

Harry’s mind went blank.

He’d been preparing for this moment. Anticipating it, even, as a vital part of his plan…

 _But screw the plan,_ a small voice inside of him growled, _is it even worth it? Allowing his symbol to mar you, to remain perpetually etched upon your skin…_

Harry’s mind flashed with long-forgotten memories of his parents… red hair and crinkling, hazel eyes behind glasses…

_What will they think? When they—if they ever see you—_

“—under one last condition,” Voldemort finished.

Harry raised his eyebrows, questioning, “My Lord?”

Voldemort smiled, addressing everyone. “As we all know, there had been rumors of a fledgling attempt to rebel against us… of a group called the Order of the Phoenix.”

Murmurs of assent and disgust followed his statement.

“At our last meeting, I caught the most curious… _rat_ listening in on our discussion.” He ran the tip of his wand along the rim of his glass, refilling it. “Graciously, I allowed him to stay for this one as well.”

Voldemort flicked his wand towards the wall behind the foot of the table, underneath a line of impeccable china.

 

Harry’s mouth opened in a silent scream.

A man with dirty blonde hair lay slumped against the wall, his bleeding, mutilated wrists and ankles chained to it. Splotches of dried blood populated his body, and his clothes had been cut to the point of being reduced to rags.

When the man opened his watery blue eyes, he noticed the eyes staring at him and proceeded to shake. The countless scars littering his face began to open once more, and his mouth opened in a scream as silent as the one Harry had held back.

 

Peter Pettigrew.


	7. Chapter 7

_Peter Pettigrew._

Harry fought to keep the contents of his stomach in, horror and shock flooding him with the urge to apparate on the spot. But he couldn’t tear his eyes from the man’s mutilated features, from the raw-bitten lips that opened to scream once more, causing nothing more than the slightest of ripples in the silencing ward placed around him.

The assortment of hanging plates and glass shelves above Pettigrew’s head tinkled softly at the vibrations in the air, adding a brutal sense of irony to the scene before him.

“Has he—?” Harry broke off hoarsely, eyes tracking the tears streaming down Pettigrew’s plump cheeks. Because _of course_ Pettigrew had been here this whole time, chained and silenced mere meters away from where Harry sat _drinking tea with Death Eaters –_

Harry choked back a hysterical laugh, pulsing his clenched hand around his wand as he tensed in anticipation. He’d always hated Wormtail for betraying his parents to Voldemort, for _framing_ Sirius and causing his godfather so much guilt, pain, suffering. But seeing him in this state…

Voldemort’s smile deepened into something feral, his lips stained red from wine. Without warning, he cut the silencing spell on Pettigrew. Shrieks pierced the air, and once Pettigrew himself realized this, his screams turned into begging sobs.

“Please… _please don’t—”_

“ _Crucio_ ,” Voldemort said pleasantly, his voice low and lilting. Pettigrew’s body contorted under the ruthless command for seconds before dropping back against the wall, completely still.

All around the table, Death Eaters began shifting in their seats, wands slipping out of their sleeves into their waiting palms. The energy in the room was a palpable, buzzing with excitement, anticipation, and bloodthirstiness.

“Dessert time, _”_ Bellatrix voiced in a sing-song manner before breaking into soft giggles, and a tall, dark man—Rodolphus Lestrange, Harry registered vaguely—grinned savagely back at her. On Lestrange’s other side, Barty Crouch Jr. was muttering lowly into Regulus’s ear with a smirk, discussing the spells he’d been practicing lately.

And Snape—he was quiet as ever, gazing at Pettigrew with a turmoil to rival Harry’s. _It must be strange to see his Hogwarts year-mate here,_ Harry recalled, _even if it’s someone he hates._

But then his eyes returned to Voldemort, and his previous train of thought was forgotten.

Voldemort weaved his hands together, elbows resting on the table in front of him, before placing his chin on his knuckles. His full attention was on Pettigrew’s shivering, curled-up form, and table between them felt like no hindrance at all.

“Let’s play a game.” The Dark Lord addressed his victim. “You’re only alive so long as your mouth is running. The moment it runs dry, you are at the mercy of my Death Eaters.”

The Death Eaters broke out in low chuckles as Pettigrew stayed silent.

“Ah, _Wormtail,_ ” Voldemort uttered, and as the blonde man flinched at the nickname, Harry saw his eyes flicker with malicious satisfaction. He’d clearly been using Legilimency. “Let’s see how much of a rat you really are.”

And then he was dragging his yew wand in a long line, and Pettigrew was dragging across the floor, up the side of the table, _onto the table._ He lay on his back, chest heaving as the chains on his wrist re-established themselves, attaching his arms and legs to the four legs of the dining table until his arms and legs were outstretched across the table.

Gruesomely spread-eagle, like an offering to the gods.

The Death Eaters were cackling, some of them tauntingly tracing their wands across his skin and ripped clothing. And although they left no mark behind, their intent and desire to hurt had never been clearer.

Voldemort’s chin was resting on his knuckles once more, his eyes lazily roaming the sight before him. Pettigrew was whimpering, protesting with half-mumbled nothings, but they ceased the instant the Dark Lord opened his mouth.

“ _Is there anything you would like to tell me?”_ he half-hissed, though the words were very much English.

Silence. Then, “N-no—”

“No?” Voldemort asked, amused. “Hmmm…. _Bella._ ”

“ _Crucio,”_ Bellatrix drawled. And now Pettigrew was writhing under her spell, his body jerking excruciatingly, and even when he began begging, pleading, _conceding_ she didn’t stop until her master held up a hand.

“ _Good,_ Bella,” Voldemort breathed in praise, and Bellatrix continued to preen long after he’d turned his attention back to Pettigrew. His eyes darkened with ruthless impatience.

“Who sent you here? Your precious Order?” he spat, vitriol returning to his voice along with his quicksilver temper, and Pettigrew flinched back into the table.

“S-Sir…” Pettigrew tried stalling, despite everything, and then it was too late because Voldemort was uttering another name and the chubby, watery-eyed man was submerged in a sea of torture. His wails grew louder and louder until he broke, screaming “ _YES!_ YES they sent me. They SENT ME!”

Triumph gleamed in Voldemort’s eyes as he signalled for Rudolphus to cease, briefly commenting on the spell’s lack of power. With horrified certainty, Harry realized that he was going around the table, one-by-one, calling on Death Eaters in order of their rank.

Voldemort gestured encouragingly. “Well, don’t stop there. _Go on—_ how is the Order doing, lately?”

“N-not well!” Pettigrew stammered, and then he was talking, _really_ talking. “Terribly, in fact. They’ve grown complacent, they’re starting _families_ now—they think the real threat is gone because you haven’t attacked for a while now, see? And now… _”_

As the blonde man continued to ramble on, Harry realized that Pettigrew was the kind of person who could talk a lot without saying anything in particular by stalling. With a whispering, disbelieving exhale of laughter, Harry recognized that this was his way of trying to protect his friends.

“Starting families?” Voldemort questioned, like the very concept confused him.

“Yes!” Pettigrew exclaimed. “Alice Longbottom—she’s pregnant, and so is Lily Potter for that matter—”

Snape swore softly. Harry’s breath hitched loudly, and for a split second he could have sworn Voldemort’s eyes had turned in his direction.

Voldemort’s mouth curled upwards, and even though the information couldn’t have possibly been of any importance to him at all, he asked, “Lily Potter is pregnant? Since when _?_ ”

And then Pettigrew was pausing, uncertainty filling his eyes because the Potters were his friends and Voldemort was _interested_ and that was never a good thing—

“Barty.”

This time, as Pettigrew contorted against the chains, his shirt ripped completely and revealed the scars that continued to open and re-heal. As Harry’s gaze flitted across the table, he noticed the strange, hungry expressions of the Carrow twins, Dolohov, Karkaroff… not merely bloodthirsty, but savagely _leering._

Dolohov reached over and pinched the exposed skin of Pettigrew’s waist, chuckling lowly when his actions elicited a shrieking yelp amidst tortured screaming. Even after Barty had ceased his spell, other Death Eaters began to mess with Pettigrew as they laughed amongst each other, all under their Lord’s watchful, impassive gaze.

_Barbarians._

Harry turned his eyes away uncomfortably, his chest thudding as he searched for something _safe_ and found Regulus’s eyes. They glinted coolly back at him, the epitome of aloofness, but Harry could have sworn that same vulnerability he’d seen earlier was present.

 _Don’t do this,_ he begged Regulus with his eyes. Because Regulus was _next in line_ and Harry didn’t want to see this man, his only _fucking friend,_ the brother of his godfather, mindlessly torture someone—

But Voldemort had already called his name, and Regulus turned away from Harry and did exactly that.

Something broke in Harry then. He inhaled quickly, painfully, with the growing awareness of how _alone_ he was. He didn’t want to look at this, didn’t want to be here any longer. But then Pettigrew croaked the word, “ _November,”_ before rambling, in an almost deranged manner, “Rose if it’s a girl, Harry if it’s a boy…”

And the torture stopped, and the interrogation started all over again.

Voldemort tilted his head. “An August baby,” he practically hummed, as if speaking to no one in particular. But the way he glanced sideways at Harry said it all.

“July, actually,” Harry uttered, and then he _shut up_ because he had already said way too much and those words reminded him of a certain prophecy and, fuck, Harry had only just now remembered the prophecy. And the minute Voldemort heard about the prophecy he was definitely doomed—

The Death Eaters were back to torturing Pettigrew, with Voldemort continuing to casually critique his disciples’ techniques. But now all Harry could think about was his approaching turn to torture Pettigrew, his impending doom in the face of any details Pettigrew revealed that somehow managed to incriminate him.

As Karkaroff continued to burn Pettigrew with illusionary fire, drawing screams from him, Voldemort ignored the scene before him.

“Severus, didn’t you go to Hogwarts with Pettigrew? ”

“... Yes,” Snape spoke slowly, before continuing. “Peter Pettigrew,” he exhaled. “Mediocre in every way. He was constantly overshadowed by his best friends—James Potter and Sirius Black,” he spat the names venomously, gaining fire, “whom he practically _worshipped_ and probably still does, like the _worthless—_ ”

Snape cut himself off.

Then, after deigned Pettigrew one last, bland look, he faced the Dark Lord. “He’s useless.”

In response, Voldemort ceased Pettigrew’s torture with the flick of a finger and addressed him once more.

“Indeed, Pettigrew, you’ve proven utterly useless thus far. But I’m sure you’ll prove helpful in the future.” Voldemort twiddled his wand between his fingers. “Send the Order my regards.”

Pettigrew’s eyes opened, wide and hopeful and incredulous, his mouth forming an ugly grimace of a smile. “You’re releasing me?”

“After you pledge your allegiance to me, of course.”

Pettigrew’s small, ugly smile fell away. “M-my Lord…”

“What did you expect, Pettigrew? You’ve been such a useless boy. Either I release you with your pledge to the Dark Lord, or,” Voldemort’s eyes darkened dangerously, “with days of torture and a Dark Mark to show your friends.”

Peter inhaled sharply and stayed silent.

“... Surely, then, your friends will welcome you back with open arms. After all, they’ll know the Dark Mark was forced upon you.”

Voldemort’s voice fell to a low, enthralling pitch, sounding eerily like the devil on one’s shoulder.

“But will they ever look at you the same way? Who are you to them, anyways?”

Voldemort glanced sideways at Snape, his tone turning contemplative. “ _Mediocre…_ I suspect you’ve been hearing that word your entire life. Would they even care for you, if they saw you again—if they saw your Dark Mark?”

Pettigrew sobbed deeply as the Dark Lord leaned forward, his chin never leaving his fist as his voice grew ever softer, ever crueler.

“... or would they just, discard you?”

Harry looked on helplessly as Voldemort _destroyed_ Pettigrew with his tongue, bringing him to tears in a way even his deadliest Death Eaters could not. He summoned Pettigrew’s securities to the surface, only to manipulate them like they were his own playthings until they danced to the Dark Lord’s tune.  

His voice too weak to make a sound, Pettigrew merely shuddered as another dry sob wracked through his figure.

At once, Voldemort was on his feet, looming above Pettigrew… above them _all,_ even when Harry and the rest of the Death Eaters stood up in turn. He was impossibly tall, his presence _suffocating._

“Who could ever want a man like you, one who merely lay down and _accepted torture_ rather than fighting back?” Voldemort intoned.

“I have… no choice,” Pettigrew gasped quietly, craning his neck upwards, responsive for once as he shook his wrists feebly. “I am _in chains._ ”

Voldemort chuckled softly and shook his head in mock disappointment before bending down over Pettigrew’s immobilized form on the table.

“Little _rat,_ ” he drawled with amusement, hissing the last word like an endearment. “Even if you were unchained and armed with a wand, you would be just as paralyzed in _fear_ as you are now.”

The Dark Lord swept his wand and released Pettigrew from his chains, leaning in closer, placing a palm on the table. And sure enough, the blonde man only sunk deeper into the table, as if attempting to bury himself into it.

“Your chains,” Voldemort whispered, “are in here.” He pressed his pale fingertips into the dead center of Pettigrew’s forehead, and with a shiver of foreboding, Harry reminisced those same fingers clawing at his scar in the graveyard. “Purely _mental_.”

The Dark Lord leaned back. “Just one small thing—swear your allegiance to me and go on, back to your friends.”

 _You’ll lose your friends either way,_ Harry wanted to scream. _Don’t do it._

And then Pettigrew, for all that he had been through, found the Gryffindor courage within him to open his watery blue eyes and stare down the Dark Lord, to sit up on the table and face him. Without the stalling guise of useless, pretty words to hide him.

“I will _not_ pledge my allegiance. I will _not_ betray my friends.”

Harry’s jaw dropped, his eyes widening impossibly. The Death Eaters fell silent for the first time since Pettigrew had been brought out.

Voldemort stared at the bleeding, blonde man before him, incredulity clear in his expression.

Then, suddenly, he let out a bout of high, chilling laughter, so eerie—so reminiscent of the laughter in Harry’s nightmares—that it couldn’t have been anything but natural.

Within seconds, the laughter had come to an abrupt end, Voldemort’s gaze ever unreadable as he leaned back in his chair. As they all sat down, the Death Eaters remained tense, wary—more silent than they’d ever been.

And in that instant—the mercurial moods, the quicksilver temper—it all became clear to Harry, how _unstable_ Voldemort was. It was his horcruxes, acting up somehow. _He must have made another horcrux recently,_ Harry realized.

But this instability did nothing to hinder Voldemort. Madness only made the intelligent, calculating glint in his eyes gleam brighter. It strengthened his sense of unpredictability, making him more dangerous than ever. 

So, of course, without warning—

“Your turn, Hadrian. Perform the  _Cruciatus._ ”

Harry sucked in a breath, his shoulders high as his mind raced. “My Lord…” He looked down, shielding his trepidation, his unwillingness. “I’ve never successfully cast an Unforgivable before.”

Voldemort quirked a taunting eyebrow from his throne at the table’s head. “Then by all means, learn now if you ever wish to serve your Lord properly.”

Harry stood frozen, staring at the Dark Lord. His eyes flickered to the Death Eaters, gazing back at him with malicious smiles and dismissive smirks, all equally intent on seeing him fail.  

And if that happened, all would be lost.

“... Go on, Hadrian.” Voldemort’s voice was tinged with an impatient edge that Harry didn’t want to test, but—

 _What are you doing?_ A voice screamed in Harry’s head as he fingered the wand beneath his sleeve. _How far gone are you, in this ruse of being a Death Eater?_

Harry tried to convince himself not to feel, not to think beyond the fact that he had to do this, to prove himself to Voldemort this once so he could find the Order on a mission—

_How far are you willing to go? How much of your morals—yourself—are you willing to sacrifice?_

“My… my Lord?” Harry rasped one last time, more pleading rather than questioning.

He had to do this. He had no choice. Harry had to _torture Pettigrew to save everyone—_

“ _Now!”_ Voldemort hissed demandingly.

At once, Harry trained his wand on Pettigrew and thought of the last time he’d spoken the Cruciatus, remembering Bellatrix’s triumphant scream in the face of Sirius’s death.

“ _Crucio,”_ he spoke, coldly, awash in the haunting memories that came so vividly to him. Because now they were all flooding him at once: Bellatrix killing Fred, and the Carrow twins killing Remus, and _ah…_ so much _fucking_ death he hadn’t been able to prevent—

“ _CRUCIO!”_ He screamed, hatred directed towards every man who had served the Dark Lord’s cause but especially directed towards _himself_. _The Chosen One,_ Harry laughed mirthlessly, who _failed_ to save so many lives.

“Crucio,” his voice uttered, so monotone and emotionless and unlike himself.

In Harry’s past few castings of the Cruciatus, Pettigrew had merely twitched once, twice. But now he truly began to scream, and as soon as he did Harry blinked, shaken from his memories of the past.

Harry cut off the spell in shock, forcing himself to take in the man’s features. Small, watery blue eyes framed in a tear-stained, chubby face. His nervous, small lips were mouthing indecipherable, pleading nothings, but when Harry looked closer, he could almost hear the words coming out it…

_“Harry, James wouldn’t have wanted me killed…”_

“Agh!” Harry snarled and stumbled back, eyes clenched shut as he wrenched his hand down and doubled over, the force of the memory hitting him like the _Crucio_ he’d thrown. Bile rose in his throat, which was quickly closing in on him as the full impact of what he’d done hit him, of what was happening here hit him. Harry’s heart pounded as emotions and memories he’d fought to suppress for so long—not even since landing in the past, but since long, _long_ before—flooded him. The barrier had been broken.

_I can’t do this. I CAN’T—what am I even DOING—?_

“Lord Voldemort,” Harry whispered weakly, repeating his earlier words for lack of anything else to say, shoulders slumped and mind buzzing. He turned to face the long dining table, registering the brief flicker of calculation and narrow-eyed disappointment in the Dark Lord’s eyes, before his mind was elsewhere once more.

He barely heard the jeers from the other Death Eaters, Bellatrix’s cackles and Snape’s spit of, “He’s _useless,_ I knew it!” Their taunts were nothing compared to the horrors that haunted Harry’s memories, his nightmares—the dying screams of his loved ones—now brought to the surface because he was _on their side now,_ causing those screams, and nothing could justify what Harry had been doing.

He was barely aware as all the other Death Eaters were dismissed from the dining room, leaving Harry alone with an unstable psychopath and an unpredictable traitor, because he was lost, _so lost—_

And suddenly, a surprisingly warm, long-fingered hand was wrapping itself around Harry’s, guiding him through the movements.

 _“Cru… cio,”_ came the quiet whisper into Harry’s ear, like a loving caress. Peter’s body began twisting into unfathomable positions again, harsher than ever and this time, relentless.

The vision triggered Harry into struggling, attempting to stop the spell. But an arm wrapped itself around his torso from behind him, keeping Harry in place.

 _“Stay still, Harry Potter,”_ the voice hissed in parseltongue, harsher and more determined than before, before addressing the blonde man on the table.

“Peter Pettigrew. This man is from the future.”

And suddenly, Harry’s eyes snapped open. He ripped himself out of the strange embrace, turning to face Voldemort defiantly.

“ _Don’t touch me,”_ Harry hissed, accidentally slipping into parseltongue. Because now, despite reality’s contrast, all he saw were red eyes and a slitted nose and miles of paralyzingly pale skin… like a sick, albino snake.

But for a moment, _touching_ this monstrosity had made him seem human, and its touch had been comforting, and he never, _ever_ wanted to make the mistake of thinking that again…

 

Voldemort wasn’t even looking at Harry. Pettigrew, however, was staring at Harry in so much consternation, fear, fascination. 

"The  _future?_ " Pettigrew questioned, eyes wide. Harry swallowed dryly.

“Yes. Look at him, Peter. _Look at him._ ” Pettigrew's confusion grew as Voldemort continued. “See what will become of your precious friends, the evidence of how they will _turn against you._ ”

Voldemort's eyes burned intensely, madly, gleefully.

"Look at  _Harry James Potter_."

And suddenly, Harry’s confusion bled into horror as he realized Voldemort’s true intentions.

_Oh no. No, no, no—_

“ _Peter—”_ Harry said urgently, imploringly, trying to prevent the inevitable. He was shaking his head, as if to communicate that _this wasn’t real, Harry wasn’t… he wasn’t—_

But it was too late. With dread pooling in his stomach, he saw the moment it truly clicked for Pettigrew, the moment he realized who Harry could possibly be—who he _had_ to be.

_Rose if it's a girl, Harry if it's a boy..._

“ _No!_ ” Pettigrew gasped disbelievingly, except the look in his eyes was dead, as if he was already broken. “ _Harry... Potter?_ ” Pettigrew rasped roughly, but this time his tone was resigned, anything but questioning.

Harry only looked at him, helpless, unable to deny the truth of his identity. 

Without warning, Pettigrew let out a shriek brimming with pain and hurt. Because now he was utterly wrecked, utterly _destroyed._ This misleading hint of the future—seeing his best friend’s son _torture_ him, for Voldemort—was his last straw, even if he couldn’t understand _how,_ or _why_.

Voldemort laughed as Pettigrew sunk to his knees, annihilated, pledging his undying loyalty. He smiled triumphantly when Harry sunk to his knees beside him, mind numb with the impact of his actions, as he accepted the Dark Mark to his arm.

Regulus had told him it would burn like fire, but it didn’t hurt at all. There was nothing left to hurt inside of Harry.

 

.     .     .

 

Harry was still overwhelmingly numb when he came back to the room. Teddy had sensed something was off, observant as always, because he quietly obeyed when Harry tucked the quilt over him, running his fingers through his godson’s hair until the young boy was lulled to sleep.

At Teddy’s first snore, soft and childlike, Harry felt emotion rush back into him—soft and warm. He leaned down and kissed Teddy’s forehead, nearly smiling against it, before getting up from the bed.

Only then did he allow himself to pull up his sleeve once more.

It wasn’t nearly as fascinating on himself as it had been on Regulus, Harry concluded, as he traced the dark spine of the snake emerging from the skull, his arm still raw.

Then a soft knock sounded on his door, and Harry stilled. Reluctant to move, to face his future as a Death Eater.

“Hadrian,” came the weary, muffled voice. “Please.”

Harry tossed a silencing ward around the bed before slowly making his way to the door, opening it.

Regulus stood outside of his door, his gray eyes bloodshot and weary, black locks curling across his forehead haphazardly. His jaw was speckled with stubble in a way that had Harry’s chest thudding strangely, but then his eyes met Regulus’s and everything came rushing back to him.

“Hello,” Harry greeted politely, aloofly, and that was all it took for those gray eyes to sparkle vividly with anger.

“ _Hadrian,_ ” Regulus warned, “Don’t—don’t be like this—”

“Like what?” Harry quirked an eyebrow. “Aloof? Ignorant? An innocent-torturing _bastard_?”

Regulus’s jaw clenched. He reached for Harry’s wrist against the door, but Harry jerked his hand back.

“ _Don’t touch me,_ ” Harry snapped, with nearly the same amount of venom in his voice as he’d had earlier with Voldemort, and Regulus recoiled at his tone.

They stared at each other in silence, holding the other’s gaze before Harry broke it, suddenly refusing to look anywhere but down.

“You really are a Death Eater,” Harry whispered, his voice filled equal parts with incredulity and horror.

Regulus’ face whipped sideways as if he’d been slapped.

“It was foolish of you to ever think otherwise.” The taller man whispered back somberly, his mouth curling viciously.

Harry shook his head stubbornly, refusing to look Regulus in the eye.

“You _think,”_ Regulus growled, suddenly catching Harry’s arm and forcing Harry to look up at him. “You think I had a choice?”

“OF COURSE YOU HAD A CHOICE!” Harry bellowed at him, recklessly, unthinkingly, pushing him back from the entrance of his room.

“YOU KNOW NOTHING!” Regulus roared back. “NOTHING of how much I’ve _sacrificed. How much I’ve… ”_

He broke off, unwilling to succumb to yet another moment of vulnerability. But Harry did know, was perfectly aware of everything Regulus had sacrificed and would sacrifice in the future—the affections of his brother, his own free will. _His life._

In that moment, with a rare fire in his eyes, Regulus resembled Sirius so much. And yet, there was something so different about him, something tempered and logical and selfless in his rage, that made Harry see him as his own person.

He stepped forward, capturing Regulus's shoulder.

“I know, Regulus.” _I’m sorry,_ Harry meant, and he knew that Regulus had understood. “I didn’t have a choice either,” he admitted.

Regulus’s eyes turned sad again. “He made you… did you—?”

In response, Harry merely slid his hand off of Regulus's shoulder to raise the sleeve of his robes. “I had to, in order to prove myself _worthy._ ” He spat the last word out mockingly as he jerked his sleeve back down, self-hatred rising within him again. “I was the victim’s _last fucking straw_ before he completely broke.”

Regulus caught his arm and pulled Harry towards him, bending down with a look of seriousness.

“Harry. If it hadn’t been you, someone else would have done it.”

Harry looked at Regulus, _wanting_ to believe him—

But _no. It had been Harry,_ and only _he_ could have possibly broken Peter so badly that he’d pledged himself to the Dark Lord. Regulus had no idea, no inkling of the knowledge that had broken him—that it was the knowledge of his own _best friend’s son from the future, torturing him,_ that had made Peter finally break—

“Hadrian,” Regulus says, shaking him. But now Harry’s mind was racing, unbelievable theories playing with his imagination, and even as he fought to suppress them the evidence was only growing clearer and clearer.

 

While tracking down horcruxes with Hermione and Ron, Harry had learned that Regulus was R. A. B.—the man who’d replaced the Dark Lord’s locket with his own in one last, defying act. He'd thought nothing of it at the time. But now, he considered Regulus one of his closest friends, and at the back of his mind was the constant question of _what could have possibly driven Regulus to betray Voldemort..._

During the Final Battle, Narcissa Black had lied to Lord Voldemort for Harry’s sake, declaring him dead even when he hadn’t been. Of course, it had mostly been for the sake of her son, but…

Still. _Still._

Harry stumbled back a few steps, leaning against the wall. He’d always suspected that time travel resulted in a changed, alternate universe, one that diverged from the original universe and became something completely separate.

But what if everything Harry had been doing in this past timeline—the friendships he’d formed, the men he had tortured…  

What if his whole childhood and past had already been affected by it?

_“Voldemort chose the boy he thought most likely to be a danger to him,” said Dumbledore. “And notice this, Harry. He chose, not the pureblood, but the half-blood, like himself. "_

Harry clasped his hands over his mouth, eyes widening behind his glasses. _Bullshit._ Voldemort hadn't chosen Harry over Neville simply because of his half-blood status. 

_"He saw himself in you before he had ever seen you...”_

Voldemort chose Harry because he had known him as an adult. Because he had seen into Harry's mind... witnessed his parseltongue abilities... felt the instant connection between them since that moment he had forced Harry's chin upwards, meeting his eyes in the Black Manor dungeons.

 

“Hadrian,” Regulus repeated once more, and this time, Harry turned to him, his heart pounding in his chest as he opened his mouth. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi. Sorry. I thought Sirius was coming in this chapter but I didn't expect the torture scene to be so long. :( So much angst
> 
> *ON a side note - I've had some comments debating about whether Pettigrew became a spy only once he was the Secret Keeper, or once Harry was born, etc. I'm not sure canon confirms this - but I believe that Pettigrew was a spy long before Harry was born. Can't seem to find the quote - but I remember Sirius and Remus discussing a spy who'd been leaking information for quite a while (and this is obv. before Snape becomes a double-agent) and how everyone had been suspicious of one another (i.e. Sirius believing Remus to the spy, Remus believing the same of Sirius, etc.).


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **IMPORTANT: I completely rewrote Chapter 1 so that Harry meets BELLATRIX instead of Andromeda. As a result of this, Andromeda is now GOOD, married to Ted Tonks, and has a six-year-old Tonks.**

_But what if everything Harry had been doing in this past timeline—the friendships he’d formed, the men he had tortured…_

_What if his whole childhood and past had already been affected by it?_

_“Hadrian,” Regulus repeated once more, and this time, Harry turned to him, his heart pounding in his chest as he opened his mouth._

But before Harry could say anything—

“Let’s get smashed,” Regulus declared, straightening up as he walked past Harry into his room. He opened Harry’s closet and began sifting through his clothes, his slender fingers dancing across the hangers like piano keys.

Harry glared at his back, momentarily distracted from his spiraling thoughts. “Smashed? At this hour?”

Regulus looked over his shoulder, tossing a lopsided smirk in Harry’s direction. “Harry, you’re a free man now.” He eyed the green amulet around Harry’s neck. “What better way to taste freedom once more than to savor the burn of Firewhiskey?”

With those words of wisdom, he transfigured a cloak into a green button-down shirt and set it on the bed next to Teddy. “It’d be best if we disguised ourselves as Muggleborns, to remove any cause for suspicion… the tavern I have in mind is, politically speaking, rather Light-leaning… ” His eyes slid casually over Teddy before stuttering to a stop, continuing to stare at the young boy.

Harry tensed in anticipation.

By day, Teddy was an exact miniature version of Harry—all wild black curls and myopic green eyes. But when he slept, he slipped back into his natural features. His nose slimmed, his eyelashes growing heavier as they fluttered in his sleep. The rowdy curls of his hair had lightened and loosened into elegant waves, spraying across the white sheets.

Then Teddy murmured something into the pillow, and Regulus’s eyes snapped back to Harry.

“He really doesn’t look like you,” Regulus mused, curiosity evident despite his nonchalant tone. But Harry could see the gears twisting in his mind, the confusion and flicker of suspicion across his features as he struggled to piece together the impossible evidence in front of him.

Harry didn’t blame him. After all, in his natural form, Teddy was the carbon-copy of his maternal grandmother.

“No, he’s already _way_ better-looking than me,” Harry joked awkwardly, attempting to distract Regulus from his current train of thought. He picked up the green shirt and raised an eyebrow in the taller man’s direction. “Let me guess—to go with my eyes?”

Half of his wardrobe back at home had consisted of greens, courtesy of Ginny. In the short amount of time he’d dated her following the war, she’d been more focused on transforming Harry’s appearance than anything else… helping him, really, improve in areas where he was absolutely hopeless…

Regulus blinked at him questioningly, pausing for a moment, before rolling his eyes.

“I simply like the color. Slytherin green.” He tilted his head back, glancing softly at the ceiling. “It reminds me of my time at Hogwarts.”

 _Of a time before I became a Death Eater,_ was the unspoken sentiment.

Then Regulus smirked, focusing back on Harry. “But of course, if a compliment is what you’re fishing for, I’m happy to oblige…”

Ignoring Harry’s indignant splutters, he stared into Harry’s eyes in mock adoration. His accent grew fancier and pompous.

“ _My_ , Harry, has anyone ever told you your eyes are the exact shade of—”

“Grass?” Harry interrupted dryly. “The Killing Curse? Save your breath, I’ve heard it all.”

“Hmmm… _no_.” Regulus came closer, his eyes narrowed in legitimate inspection. His mouth twitched in barely contained amusement, “I don’t know if anyone’s ever told you this before, but your eyes are actually the exact shade of a fresh pickled toad.”

Harry merely gaped at him, his sense of deja vu ringing louder than ever.

Then he turned his eyes upward, begging the universe to stop playing practical jokes on him.

 

.     .     .

  

For a moment, Harry simply stood outside. He tilted his head upward, savoring the breeze on his face after months of being restricted to the Black Manor and training facilities. And now a light snowfall was starting, a reminder that it was the middle of winter.

Harry had hardly paid attention to how much time had passed during his Death Eater training.

“Coming?” Regulus asked, an understanding look on his face. Harry smiled and followed him.

Hog’s Head was a packed mess. Raucous laughter greeted Harry as he ducked into the entrance, a drunk, swaying body instantly knocking into him.

Before he could lose himself to the crowd, Regulus grabbed Harry by the wrist and dragged him to a secluded corner of the bar, near the curtained off area for private parties. At the opposite corner of the tavern, Harry glimpsed a closed-off meeting room.

The bartender—a tall, middle-aged redhead with gray streaks—faced them expectantly.

Regulus drummed his fingers against the bar. “Firewhiskey, please.”

“How many shots?”

“We’ll take the whole bottle.”

The red-haired bartender merely raised his eyebrows at the two of them—a strangely stern expression that made Harry freeze at its familiarity—before shrugging nonchalantly. He took out a bottle and promptly filling their glasses.

Harry leaned his elbows against the counter and stared at the bartender. There was something strangely familiar about his appearance, about his blue eyes and gray-streaked red hair. He was by no means young—wrinkles littered his cheeks and the corners of his eyes.

But his eyes were sharp, alert, _assessing—_ darting everywhere all at once like a trained Auror’s.

“I’ve been seeing your brother come around here a couple of times,” the bartender said casually. “Threw him out of the tavern last week, in fact.”

So much for their muggleborn disguises.

Harry felt more than saw Regulus stiffen besides him, his voice taking on a casual pretense. “Oh?” He could tell Regulus was curious, burning to ask _why_ , but instead all he said was—

“Well, that’s good for him.” Regulus’s mouth curled bitterly before he abruptly tipped his head back, taking a shot. Then, swiping the corner of his mouth with his fingertips, he shot back a rather defensive, “How’s _your_ brother?”

The bartender’s mouth twisted sardonically, mirroring his customer’s. “Oh, you know—busy being the most important wizard in Britain. These days, the sun shines out of my brother’s every orifice, I’ve heard.”

“Ah—and here I was, thinking it was merely the firelight from his pet phoenix’s flames.”

The bartender rolled his eyes. “Don’t get me started on the bloody bird.”

Regulus burst into laughter at the bartender’s vehemence, reaching for the bottle to pour himself another shot. The bartender walked away and tended to new customers.

Harry, meanwhile, was reeling at the realization of who he’d just met—confirmed by the nametag he’d glimpsed as the bartender had turned away.

“I didn’t know you were close with Aberforth Dumbledore.”

Even as he finished speaking, Harry had begun drawing eerie similarities between Regulus and Dumbledore. They were both overshadowed by their elder brothers. They had sacrificed their freedom for their family’s sakes… it made sense, actually…

But Regulus, who had been absentmindedly tossing privacy spells around them, shot him a strange look.

“Are you mad? We’re not _close_ by any definition. We’re civil with each other, of course, but,” he shrugged, instinctively lowering his voice,  “you simply can’t afford to be friends with the other side. And of course, he’s supposedly a member of the Order so—”

Harry’s eyebrows shot up. “Wait— _he’s_ a member?” After all of those things Aberforth had said about his brother? He certainly hadn’t been a member of the Order during the Second War.

Regulus shot him a look of incredulity. “How do you not _know_ this—”

“But Aberforth disparaged his brother right in front of us—”

“Oh please, he’s obviously a spy, Hadrian. He gets people drunk enough to spill their darkest secrets—for a _living._ ” Regulus glared at Aberforth’s back, his polite, aloof demeanor wiped away. “Didn’t you hear him questioning me about my relationship with Sirius, attempting to provoke me?”

Regulus ran his fingers along the rim of his glass, staring somberly down into its swirling contents as he lowered his voice. “I’m positive that he’s already entertaining suspicions about me—he’s merely waiting for proof. The second he gets it, he’ll rat me out to the Order and put my name down for Azkaban.”

He looked up at Harry, his eyes alighted with a mixture of fear and helpless, morbid amusement. “Or _worse—_ the Order will keep me, for interrogation purposes… ”

As Regulus went on about the all possible punishments handed out to caught Death Eaters, Harry learned very quickly what kind of drunk Regulus was: impassioned and talkative—not unlike the way he had been when speaking of Sirius. His theories grew increasingly ludicrous as he grew more intoxicated.

“... and maybe Dumbledore would force-feed us lemon drops until we pleaded _mercy…”_

When Regulus had finally finished speaking, he was clumsily reaching for the bottle once more. His eyebrows furrowed in deep concentration as he slowly and carefully began pouring Firewhiskey onto the table.

Biting his lip to hold back laughter, Harry steadied Regulus’s hand and nudged the glass into place.

“Anything else you’d like to tell me, mate?”

Regulus, who had been frowning at the bottle in consternation, blinked in Harry’s direction.

Then he groaned. “This was supposed to be _you._ _You’re_ supposed to get drunk and spill all your secrets to me.”

Harry lifted an eyebrow, unable to contain his amusement. “Using Aberforth’s strategies on your own friend?” He eyed the drink he’d been neglecting and began sipping it.

“Damn straight. Especially when said friend is keeping big secrets from me.”

He blinked in Regulus’s direction, caught off-guard and pausing mid-sip. “Huh?”

Regulus leaned his face against his palm, tilting it as his mouth quirked. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed the way you choke every time you so much as mention your past.”

Harry promptly began choking on his drink, suddenly more clear-headed than ever. Regulus straightened up and met his gaze head-on.

“I _know_ a curse when I see one! _Tell_ me, Hadrian-”

Before Harry could think of a way to answer him, his eyes tracked a familiar head coming into the Leaky Cauldron. He gaped in dismay before jumping into action, attempting to hunch behind Regulus.

“It’s Snape! He’s here!”

Regulus turned towards the entrance as well. Indeed, the scowling, sallow-faced man was headed towards the bar, his shifty eyes darting in all directions as he swept his way through the crowd.

“Snape!” Regulus called out, waving his hand.

“What are you _doing?_ ” Harry hissed lowly, tugging Regulus’s hand down. Then he shifted his eyes in Snape’s direction, narrowing them. “What is _he_ doing here?”

Regulus frowned. “He’s my friend too, Hadrian.” He tore his hand out of Harry’s grip, narrowing his eyes. “In fact, Severus has been my friend since I started at Hogwarts. I’ve merely been making a point of spending time with you both separately since that eventful lunch.”

He sighed and looked down at his hands. “Like us, he’s probably here to drink away his sorrows. I would have invited him along if I’d known… ”

Harry wrinkled his nose, immaturity winning out. “What sorrows? Since when does he have feelings?” He purposefully ignored the inner jab of guilt, determined not to confuse his respect for _his_ Snape as respect for _this_ one. This younger Snape was different…

Regulus shot him chillingly sober, venomous look, his gray eyes glinting dangerously. “You don’t know him at all. He’s—he’s not a happy man. He’s been through a lot. Finding out that the woman he loves is pregnant didn’t help matters at all.”

_The woman he loves…_

Harry winced at the reminder of Pettigrew’s confession earlier.

“Lily Potter?” he asked, though he already knew the answer.

Regulus paused, before slowly nodding. “Yes.” He gritted his jaw, looking away from Harry. “Yet another example of why relationships cannot exist between the two sides of this war.”

Regulus’s eyes softened, depleted of his anger. “Give him a chance, okay?”

And right then, Snape finally clued in on the pairs of eyes watching him, discussing him. Regulus waved him over once more and Snape—despite his cold, emotionless demeanor at seeing them—came over.

Harry stiffened and looked away, finally drinking the Firewhiskey before him.

“Really, Regulus,” Snape greeted. “I could sense your insobriety from across the room. I would expect this behavior from your perfidious brother, but certainly not from you.”

Snape’s eyes darted in Harry’s direction, but he made no other sign of acknowledgement.

“Honestly, Sev,” Regulus drawled back, though Harry could sense a lighthearted playfulness underneath. “You could do with some insobriety as well, after today’s events.” He gestured to the empty seat next to him. “Join us.”

Snape sneered and stayed standing. “Unlike you useless children, I am here on the Dark Lord’s orders.”

Regulus quirked an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“He has tasked me with breaking into the Order’s ranks—specifically, by becoming a professor at Hogwarts.” He accepted a drink from a young female bartender, sliding cash her way. “My interview is tonight.”

 _Already?_ Harry felt something sink in his stomach, his ears beginning to ring—like he was forgetting something important. But he shoved it away.

Regulus smiled good-naturedly. “Well, that’s brilliant. Good luck, Severus.”

Snape stared openly at Regulus, and oddly enough, the slightest hint of red appeared on his cheeks before he quickly turned his head away. His tone was as formal as ever when he spoke, “Thank you, Regulus.” Then he straightened, looking towards the entrance. “My… future boss should be arriving soon.”

Harry only had mere seconds to process what that meant before the doors of Hog’s Head swung open.

“Great man, Dumbledore!” a man at one of the tables roared, and cheers erupted all around the tavern.

Professor Dumbledore walked in with grace, the twinkle in his eyes as ever-present as his long gray beard. He smiled and calling out greetings to those he knew, even breaking into full on laughter as the cheers persisted.

Harry stood up, swallowing the feeling that had caused his throat to close up. He began walking towards the middle crowd, his mouth opening as if to join in their cheers because _Dumbledore was alive again,_ and there was a bubbling hope in him that he hadn’t felt for so _long—_

A firm, nearly painful grip settled on his upper arm. “And where do you think you’re going?”

Harry spun back to find Snape holding him. Regulus had sunk further into his corner of the bar, blatantly looking away from the cheerful crowd.

“Er…”

Snape looked distinctly unimpressed. “My sentiments exactly. I understand your naive eagerness to defeat him—but going anywhere near Dumbledore without proper preparation is pure idiocy. He’s a master Legilimens. Even with glamour upon your Dark Mark, one look into your eyes is all it would take for him to condemn you.”

He let go of Harry’s arm. “I suggest you imitate Regulus—whose Occlumency is nearly as bad as your own. Coming here tonight was not a good decision.” Snape’s eyes darted around the room. “There are Order members stationed at every corner of this room, it seems. Stay _put_ and I will accompany you both to Black Manor after my interview.”

With that, Snape slipped away into the crowd, headed in the direction of the meeting room Harry had seen earlier.

Harry huffed and leaned his elbows against the bar. “How pleasant.” He made his voice higher and more nasally. “ _Useless children. Pure idiocy._ With that vocabulary alone, he’ll be a perfect nightmare for Hogwarts students.”

Regulus only looked at Harry. “I suspect,” his mouth quirked in a small smile, “It’s his way of hiding how much he cares.”

 

.     .     . 

 

They drank in contemplative silence for a while, the occasional banter between them occurring whenever it struck their fancy. Within half an hour, Regulus was dozing off, claiming sleepiness—although by the way he was rubbing his head, it seemed that a migraine had dampened his desire to socialize.

Harry yawned, feeling like a good sleep would do him some good as well.

So, of course, someone had to ruin their peace.

“AHHHH!” A woman next to Harry screamed in his ear.

Harry, who had been seconds away from dozing off, leveled a drowsy glare in her direction. “Do you _mind_?”

But the young woman was already staring at Harry. She had crazy, brown curls and shock-wide eyes, visible behind thick, black lenses not unlike his own.

She held out a light hand, reaching out in Harry’s direction, as her mouth seemed to quiver. “M-my good sir. I couldn’t help but peer into your drinking glass—just brushing up on my skills for an interview, you see—when I saw the sign!”

 _What?_ Harry looked into his glass and saw nothing but the tan tones of Firewhiskey.

On his other side, Regulus—who had already been fast asleep—nudged him. “Stop making her draw attention to us,” he mumbled sleepily.

 _I’m trying!_ Harry wanted to mutter back. But before he could do anything, the strange woman continued.

“Young man!” She quivered, pausing dramatically. “You have—the grim!”

The gasps of eavesdroppers sounded from around them as Harry stared at her with dread. He realized who she was now, of course.

Still, he had to make sure.

“Surely you know what that means?” the woman gasped at him, gazing at him wide-eyed.

Harry cleared his throat. “Miss—?”

“Sybil Trelawney,” she whispered. “And for your information, it means you’re going to die a painful and—”

“Miss Trelawney—” Harry interrupted hastily.

“ _horrible_ death. Oh, you poor man—”

“TRELAWNEY!” Harry bellowed, patience gone. “ _This isn’t even_ _TEA!”_ Clearly, the woman had been batshit crazy since day one.

“Shut _up,_ ” Regulus hissed at Harry, now wide awake as he clutched at his head, looking around. But it was a little too late because at least half of Hog’s Head was focused on them.

Perhaps if Harry kept quiet and ignored her she would just ignore him in turn…?

But unfortunately, Trelawney just kept going _on._

“... Young people these days. They have _no respect_ for the finer arts.” She stared down at Harry over her nose.

Harry stifled a snort. Trelawney couldn’t have been more than thirty years herself at this point.

“... I’m sure wizards of _true power_ will be able to appreciate my abilities,” Trelawney sniffed, before stomping off in the direction that Snape had gone in before.

As soon as his future Divination professor was gone, Harry buried his face into his hands. What a disaster _._ What a strange and terrible nightmare. He’d faced two of his least favorite, former Hogwarts professors today—and even ignoring how weirdly coincidental it was—

 _Wait._ Harry looked up from his hands, his eyes narrowing with contemplation.

_… just brushing up on my skills for an interview, you see…_

Snape. Trelawney. Interviewing for a professorship at Hogwarts.

Somewhere in Harry’s brain, the signs had been registering, the alarm bells ringing for the past hour. Only now did Harry feel the blood draining from his head, his mouth opening in a silent, “ _No”_ because this couldn’t possibly be _that_ day.

It was too early. Harry hadn’t even been _born_ in this timeline yet. It _couldn’t_ be—

But now memories from the past were flooding Harry, and evidence was fighting against the odds once more.

_Professor Trelawney’s eyes glazed over as she recalled her own memory of the day she was hired to teach at Hogwarts. “The door flew open to reveal Snape, who… had been eavesdropping on my interview with Dumbledore—you see, he himself was seeking a job at the time, and no doubt hoped to pick up tips… ”_

On the day that Professor Dumbledore interviewed Trelawney for the Divination professor’s job, she recited the prophecy about Harry and the Dark Lord. And Snape, overhearing the first half, told the Dark Lord that very night—singlehandedly dooming the Potter family.

_No. No no. Nononono—_

A sense of urgency overwhelmed Harry. Somehow, he had to get Snape out of this tavern before he overheard the prophecy and told Voldemort. He had to—

The curtains fluttered behind them.

“I failed,” Snape muttered angrily, seating himself on the chair next to Regulus.

Regulus, who had been attempting to sleep again, blinked awake. “Wha—?”

“I didn’t get the Defense position.” The sallow-faced man placed his clenched fists delicately upon the bar. “The old coot. He practically sniffed me out,” Snape sneered. “My Occlumency was _flawless_ but somehow, he could still tell I was involved with the Dark Lord.”

With that exclamation of frustration, he slumped down in his chair. His black strands shifted to cover his face.

“I need a drink.”

Harry stood up, excuses tumbling into his head with untempered desperateness. “Ah, actually—I think we should head back.”

Snape tossed Harry a dangerous look. “I’m staying a while longer. Do what you want.”

Even Regulus frowned at him. “Harry—just a little while longer—”

“It’s late.” Harry cut in sharply, bluntly. “I need to get back to Teddy. And—” Harry addressed Snape, “If you’re going to be facing the Dark Lord’s wrath for your failure tonight, you might as well stay sober.”

Snape leveled a look at him. Then, finally, “Fine—let me use the loo first.”

Harry blinked at Snape incredulously. Seconds later, he was staring after Snape as he swept across Hog’s Head, towards the area he’d just emerged from.

With displeasure, Harry noted that the loo was right next to Dumbledore’s closed door. _Come quickly, Snape._

His heart was pounding and he could feel sweat beginning to build up, his wand hand fiddling with the wand in his sleeve—

“Harry, you seem a bit tense,” Regulus said, tilting his head sideways. Black locks fell over his concerned eyes. “Is everything okay—?”

“ _Yes!_ ” Harry said, a little more loudly than he’d meant to. Then, more quietly “I’m _fine._ ”

But he didn’t take his eyes off the door to the men’s loo for even a second. He waited… waited and _waited—_

It seemed hours had passed before Snape finally emerged from the bathroom. The shadowed man quietly closed the door behind him and took one step towards Harry… two steps…

Then Snape paused, as if listening to his surroundings. His coal black eyes—always so emotionless—widened with fear and something undecipherable.

His face was turned in the direction of Dumbledore’s door.

_NO._

And then Harry was running towards Snape. But it was already too late, because he had seen Snape’s shocked face—the man knew the first part of the prophecy. As Harry came closer, Dumbledore’s door swung open, revealing to its inhabitants that Snape had been eavesdropping.

“No. No, no, _no._ ” Harry muttered once more, and then he changed courses. He ran towards Hog’s Head’s entrance instead, attempting to block it off because there was _no way_ he was letting Snape make off with the prophecy and tattle to Voldemort.

 

“ _Expelliarmus!”_ Harry shot at Snape, who missed the spell by mere inches. Snape traced the spell back to its owner and met Harry’s eyes.

His own black eyes flashed with an untamable rage before he shot a spell back at Harry, continuing to run towards the entrance.

Harry stumbled as the spell hit him, tumbling back into Regulus—who had caught up with him and was gripping him by the shoulder.

“What the hell, Hadrian!” Regulus fumed. “Why are you throwing spells at Severus?” But Harry didn’t answer, didn’t have _time_ to answer because—

Dumbledore had emerged into the open and seen them.

He had seen everything. He knew Snape was a Death Eater and that he had witnessed the prophecy. He had watched as Harry and Regulus sat with Snape, as they ran after him—

_Good._

“Dumbledore!” Harry called out, ripping himself out of Regulus’s grip.

But Hogwarts' headmaster was ignoring Harry even as he approached them. He had a cold look upon his face as he faced them all, and the wand in his grip was leaking a black, windy material… creating a hurricane.

Harry swallowed. There had been few times when he’d seen Dumbledore this angry in his life. But this coldness from his future mentor—it was unbearable.

Still, Harry conquered his shakiness and walked forward. “Dumbledore, it’s good that—” _It’s good that you’re here,_ he’d meant to say. In fact, Harry was ready to declare his loyalty to the man right there and then.

But then Dumbledore flicked his wand, and Harry went crashing into the wall near the Hog’s Head entrance. He was barely aware as two other figures hit the building right besides him.

The entrance and walls of Hog’s Head were now encrusted with pieces of giant rock, boarding it from the inside. Any chaos that had erupted from the fighting was quelled by Dumbledore’s mere presence. There were other Order members in the room, holding back and even _Obliviating_ the civilians—those who were not a part of their cause.

 

And then Dumbledore spoke.

“It is strange to see Death Eaters wandering into Order territory past nightfall.” His voice was soft, almost questioning—and yet, like Voldemort’s, it managed to hold immense power. “Voldemort must be growing desperate.”

Snape hissed, but Dumbledore talked on. His features hardened as they grew more somber, the twinkle in his blue eyes long since extinguished.

“I’m afraid I cannot let you return to the Dark Lord with the information you’ve heard tonight.”

And then he slashed his wand in one last, violent movement, and Harry blacked out completely.

 

**.**

**.**

**Part II**

**The Order**

**.**

**.**

 

 

_Drip… drip… drip…_

Harry woke up to a damp sensation tingling down his thigh.

_Drip… drip…_

His eyes shot open, searching for the source of the constant dripping. He was so thirsty. He ran his dry tongue along the roof of his mouth but it only created friction, parching him further.

His mind felt strangely distorted… his thoughts, fragmented…

Harry gritted his teeth and sat up, feeling the tug of chains around his ankles. His wrists, surprisingly, were left free. But the rest of him wasn’t.

He had been lying on the uneven floor of an enclosed room, barred on one side—a _prison_ cell. A puddle of water had seeped into his trousers, leaving him cold and shivering.

Everything was gray: the walls, the bars, the chains.

Even his companion.

“Oh. You’re awake.”

Harry twisted his head in the direction of the deadened voice. It was Regulus. His hair was a tangled black mess, his gray eyes sleepily blinking awake. He was sitting up against the wall, resting an arm against a bent knee. A trail of blood trickling from his mouth had dried along his jaw.

Then Regulus bared his teeth, narrowing his eyes coldly at Harry. “Not like it matters, of course. _Traitor._ ”

Harry flinched, comprehension and awareness instantly flooding him.

So they’d been captured by the Order then.

He straightened up, heart pounding. Against all odds, he found himself filling with hope. This was his chance to warn the people he loved, to save them, however he could. He would have to make the most of this…

Even if it meant hurting Regulus.

Harry closed his eyes in _pain guilt loss_ as his gray-eyed companion spoke once more, his tone dark and vicious.

“I should have listened Snape. He was right about you.” Regulus leaned his chin against his bunched up knees, his eyes dark and brooding. “I only wonder where they’re keeping _him…”_

Harry stayed silent, unmoving, unthinking.

Numbness crept up his limbs as he continued to stay seated on the cold, wet floor.

_Drip… drip… drip…_

His eyes snapped open, thirst returning to him with a vengeance. He attempted to follow the sound with his eyes, wondering where on _earth_ its source could be…

And then he blinked, the significance of Regulus’s words finally hitting him.

_Snape. Captured._

Harry’s eyes widened disbelievingly, his hands splaying widely behind him. Because if he _had_ indeed been captured as well, that meant Snape hadn’t told Voldemort the prophecy. Which meant that—

He froze.

Footsteps. 

The echoes of firm footsteps upon concrete suddenly began to reach his ears. Harry scrambled back against the prison wall and towards Regulus. He tensed, his fingers curling in anticipation, nervousness, _fear._

With a deafening click that resonated over the concrete walls, the door to their cell unlocked and swung open.

 

Harry’s mouth went completely dry.

His captor struck a tall, imposing figure, black locks neatly framing his aristocratic cheekbones. The relaxed line of his mouth did nothing to soften the furious, slightly maniacal glint in his cool gray eyes, fixed unwaveringly upon them.

“Finally awake… Death Eater?” the man spat spitefully, indignantly, hatefully.

Harry never would have imagined meeting like this.

The words “I can explain” were stuck on the tip of his tongue. But all that came out was a soft, strangled, “ _Sirius._ ”

 

Sirius wasn’t even looking at Harry.

His wand and attention were trained intently upon Regulus as he strode in. When he came to a stop, Sirius rapidly grabbed Regulus’s arm and roughly pulled it towards himself. He pulled up the sleeve and began slashing his wand to remove layers of glamour until, eventually—the Dark Mark was revealed.

For a few moments, Sirius stared at it.

He clenched his hand tightly around Regulus’s arm, his stormy eyes flickering unreadably.

Then, just as abruptly, he let go of the arm and tipped his head back, letting loose a humorless chuckle. His laughter was low and barking, yet dangerous and refined in a way that had Harry shivering at its unfamiliarity.

“Ah… _Reggie,”_ Sirius uttered, his voice deep and husky and _final._ “So it’s true.”

Regulus flinched at the nickname, but Sirius carried onwards unperturbed, grinning maliciously. “The Old Hag must be so proud _._ ”

“ _Someone_ had to fulfill their family duties,” Regulus returned disdainfully, stiffly, though Harry could detect the pained waver in his voice.

Sarcasm was heavy in Sirius’s low voice. “Well, I suppose it’s good that one of us didn’t fall astray.”

Then Sirius happened to notice Harry’s intense staring. He cocked his head sideways, causing black locks to to flutter carelessly over his eyes.

“What are you looking at, Scarhead?”

It wasn’t the insult that broke Harry, but the indifference in his tone. The utter lack of disregard for Harry that he’d displayed from the start… coupled with the coldness and cruelty he’d shown Regulus…

Harry couldn’t deal with this. He couldn’t deal with Sirius hating him... worse,  _ignoring him._ He clasped a hand to his mouth, tightly, as if it would hold back the hiccups that were threatening to spill from him.

But then his own hand became suffocating, just another imprisoning layer, and Harry felt like _he couldn’t breathe—_

Sirius walked closer, raising his eyebrows in mock concern. “Oi, Scarhea—?”

Harry punched him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Most of you: *waving pitchforks* REGULUS. REGULUS. REGULUS.  
> Rest of you: Wait so when tf are we going to see Voldemort again?  
> Me: *heart-eyed* Siriusss daddyyy.
> 
> I’m just a thirsty hoe for comments so please - gift me some!!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT: Changed Snape hearing the "last" part of the prophecy to the "first" part. That way, he hears the exact some portion that he did in Canon.
> 
> Enjoy!

_Sirius walked closer, raising his eyebrows in mock concern. “Oi, Scarhea—?”_

_Harry punched him._

His fist collided with the Sirius’s lower jaw, snapping the taller man’s head back with a sickening crack.

Almost immediately, Harry wrenched his arm back, freezing in horror at his own panicked, impulsive reaction.

_What had he done?_

Sirius’s head was turned away from Harry, shadowed by the darkness of the cell. From the very edge of his turned profile, his eyelashes seemed to flutter, as if his eyes were squeezed shut. As if he was willing away the pain.

For a few seconds, nobody spoke. Nobody moved.

 

And then, Sirius tilted his head back and began to _laugh._

Breathy barks spilled from his throat, every exhale brimming with morbid amusement and disbelief. His laughter was nothing like his younger brother’s, nothing like his own laughter from earlier. It was inelegant, uncontainable, chaotic.

Unstoppable.

He laughed, and he laughed, and he _laughed._

“You… _audacious…_ little _… fuck,_ ” Sirius gasped gleefully between breaths. His wide gray eyes gleamed brightly in the darkness of the cell, strands of wavy, black hair tickling his broad shoulders.

Harry could only stare at him, terrified. Because that laughter was so chillingly familiar—so horribly, stomach-twistingly familiar _—_

_“Come on, you can do better than that!” Sirius yelled at her, his voice echoing around the cavernous room._

_The second jet of light hit him squarely on the chest._

_The laughter had not quite died from his face, but his eyes widened in shock._

Harry choked as the memories hit him full force, grief submerging him with a vengeance. Ignoring the throbbing in his right hand, he buried his face into his palms. His knees threatened to buckle under his desire to surrender, to slide back down into the gray puddle he’d woken up in… where, perhaps, he really should have stayed _…_

Because hearing that laugh was just another reminder that _his_ Sirius was gone. Forever.

_And in his place…_

With the last of his courage, Harry straightened up and raised his eyes from his hands… only to pause in terror.

A predatory grin was stretched across his captor’s handsome face, sharpening his features.

“ _Oh,_ you’re in deep shit now, Scarhead _._ ”

Sirius took two steps forward and slammed Harry back against the wall. His palm was firmly set on Harry’s left shoulder, his fingertips digging into the tender skin as if there was no barrier at all.

Harry gasped, his heart thudded furiously at the wand roughly sliding down his burning limbs _—_ leaving red-hot, iron chains in its wake, encasing every _bit of him—_

From the other corner of the room, Regulus began shifting frantically. “Don’t—”

“Don’t what?” Sirius asked, hysterical mirth bubbling in his voice. “Hurt the poor Death Eater?”

He snatched Harry’s uselessly dangling wrists and pinned them on either side of him, shackling them to the wall at eye-level. Harry felt his sleeve slide down, revealing naked skin where the glamoured Dark Mark was permanently etched.

He could feel Sirius’s gaze burning knowingly into his arm with the same ferocity he’d glared at his own brother’s.

“ _This_ is how you should have been kept from the start,” Sirius spat, all traces of mirth suddenly absent from his voice. He was close enough that Harry could feel his warm breath on his forehead, a faintly spicy scent flooding his senses.

Harry had no choice but to look up at the face mere inches from his own.

Darkened, gray eyes gleamed down at Harry with pure loathing, the sharp lines of his captor’s cheekbones seeming harsher in the dim firelight of the cell. Rough stubble covered the curve of Sirius’s jaw, level with his own forehead.

Harry didn’t remember his future godfather being so tall, but Sirius seemed to _loom_ over him. The muscles of his broad shoulders rippled as he manually, roughly tightened the shackles on Harry’s limp wrists, indifferent to the way the hot, sharp iron cut into his captive’s skin.

Harry watched in a daze, vaguely remembering how those same, large arms used to wrap around him in a tight hug—always making him feel _safe._

Except _this_ Sirius didn’t make him feel safe. His touch felt like a stranger’s _—_ wholly unwelcome.

Harry shut his eyes, overwhelmed and confused by how _wrong_ everything felt.

“... Won’t be needing _that_ anymore,” Sirius muttered.

Needing _what—?_

Harry let out a strangled gasp as a sharp pain vibrated down his ankle. Something hard had kicked against it, shattering it. He bit his lip and squeezed his eyes shut more tightly, wishing _—_ not for the first time _—_ that he could escape this horrible reality.

But the man before him would not allow him even a moment’s reprieve.

“Look at me, _coward._ ”

Sirius grasped Harry’s chained hand and _crushed_ it. Harry’s eyes flew open in agony, barely catching the fleeting, crazed glint in Sirius’s eyes.

“I’ll be very clear with you. So keep your eyes on me this once.”

And then Sirius was stepping back, away from Harry. He twiddled his wand in his right hand, beginning to pace the prison cell.

“There are good people in the Order—not only the strongest, but the _kindest_ of witches and wizards.” He pursed his lips. “Naive _,_ at times _._ ”

Sirius looked down at the wand in his hands, running its length between his forefinger and thumb.

“Most of them will never understand the darkness that lies inside of you people—one that only grows stronger every time you practice the Dark Arts or torture another helpless muggleborn—because, _you see,_ they have never experienced it for themselves.”

He paused in his pacing, his back to the two prisoners in the cell.

“But I know. I know how your lot is. I’ve grown up being _forced_ to practice the Dark Arts.” His voice turned resentful, deepening with venomous conviction. “And I know how addicting it can be, how it can _twist_ your mind with the ease it twists your morals.”

He turned around, glaring at Regulus and Harry with equal amounts of disgust.

“So—to willingly become a Death Eater? To even reach that stage? I _completely understand_ just how evil you are. I know what you’re capable of.”

 _Evil?_ A sound of protest bubbled up past Harry’s mouth.

And suddenly, Sirius was right in front of Harry, his arms trapping him against the wall—as if Harry wasn’t already chained to it.

“One. _Step._ Out of place.” His voice dipped menacingly. “If you so much as lay a _finger_ on the Order members, I’ll kick your fucking ass to Azkaban faster than you can cast an Unforgivable. I’ll fucking ruin you.”

Sirius’s upper lip curled back in an eerie, not-quite smile, showing off canines that were the slightest bit sharper than a normal human’s. He leaned in until his nose was almost touching Harry’s.

His eyes glinted with that same fleeting, crazed look from before.

“I’ll tear you apart with my bare teeth.”

Harry shuddered helplessly.

“Do you understand?”

Harry’s horror and disbelief hadn’t faded for one second through this entire ordeal. He felt numb, powerless against the onslaught of hatred from someone who was supposed to love him… so stunned, he couldn’t even defend himself…

 _I’m your godson,_ Harry wanted to scream after him. But even without the Vow swearing him to silence, he would not have spoken. His throat felt too raw, his mind already in shambles.

Instead, all he said was—

“Perfectly.”

He barely recognized his own hoarse voice, so small and detached and faraway-sounding.

Harry’s knees finally buckled then, the pain in his ankle growing overwhelming as adrenaline ran out. His whole body sagging onto the ground like a broken doll’s. With the chains still trapping his arms, he was stretched out uncomfortably—his upper half twisting at odd angles that he couldn’t bring himself to shift out of.

Tears were dripping from his jaw before the echoes of Sirius’s footsteps had faded away.

 

.     .     .

 

Harry drifted in and out of consciousness.

The coldness of the floor seeped into his bones, supported only by the stone wall behind his back. His hot-iron-burned wrists had long since scabbed over.

Regulus remained silent, unobtrusive—his eyes never even seemed to wander in Harry’s direction. It was everything Harry deserved, but it didn’t stop him from longing for the almost easy friendship they’d had.

It was only jarring _pop_ of House Elves coming in and out of the cell with trays that seemed to summon Harry to full consciousness, the aroma of food mingling deliciously, _torturously_ with his senses.

Because of course, with the shackles around his wrists, he could not eat. And Regulus wouldn’t even _look_ at Harry, let alone help feed him—

A pang struck his stomach and Harry gritted his teeth once more, tensing against the chains.

 _Hunger._ He curled into himself, briefly remembering the days in his childhood cupboard. Imprisonment was nothing new to him.

And when the dripping sound started once more…

Thirst hit him like a spell _._ Harry ran his tongue over his chapped lips, swallowing dryly. Nothing made his dehydration disappear.

It was easier to be unconscious, to forget his physical needs. But every time Harry closed his eyes, all he could see was Sirius’s furious face. And in a cell where the only sound was the ragged breathing of its prisoners, those hateful words kept playing through Harry’s mind, over and over.

“ _I’ll fucking ruin you.”_

Harry exhaled shakily, squeezing his eyes shut.

_“I’ll tear you apart with my bare teeth.”_

He trembled.

Because if Sirius held so much hatred for him, Harry didn’t want to imagine how everyone _else_ would look at him…

_With disgust? Horror?_

… _dismissively?_

 

But then there were moments when Harry’s eyes shot open, burning brightly in the darkness of the cell. Because he would remember…

_Teddy._

All alone in Death Eater territory, at the mercy of the Dark Lord.

Surely, the Dark Lord wouldn’t punish him for Harry’s absence?

 _No,_ Harry thought frantically. _No, no._

He yanked at his chains and the burn wounds on his wrists reopened, bleeding out from underneath the iron shackles. He bit his tongue, attempting to stop himself from crying out, but then blood began trickling down his jaw as well.

Harry began to feel faint. His vision grew even hazier, the light in the distance a mere droplet of gold in the darkness.

 _Drip… drip… drip_ …

The dripping. He couldn’t tell whether it was the same, mysterious water source from before, or his own blood trickling onto the concrete.

_Drip… drip…_

Harry licked his lips at the sound, swallowing his own saliva. Human instinct could not be repressed, even if it only parched him further.

So _thirsty,_ he thought, as he sunk into oblivion.

 

Days passed.

Eventually, Harry stopped struggling all together, growing completely inert.

The cell remained dark as ever, and even the dim lighting from a faraway corner of the room could not drive him to open his eyes and fight.

His previous struggles against the chains that had long since burned their mark into his wrists, whispers of _Teddy_ dying with it.

Harry had forgotten hunger, and thirst, and he was slowly forgetting…   _pain…_

“Hadrian!” said a worried, familiar voice. But he didn’t want to listen.

Sleep sounded so… _nice…_

 

“... up, wake up. _Wake up._ ”

An unfamiliar voice. A warm, delicate hand palmed his face, grasping his jaw and turning his head from one side to the other.

“Oh _no,_ ” A feminine voice murmured in alarm.

A blindingly bright form illuminated the darkness, and Harry blearily blinked awake. A tall, redheaded woman was facing away from Harry, talking to the radiant, white figure coming out of her wand.

She spoke in a crisp, calm voice, as if used to commanding an audience. But there was a worried, almost panicked tinge to tone, one that made her voice slightly higher than usual.

“One of the prisoners is in critical condition. Starved, dehydrated, unconscious from blood loss. He requires immediate medical attention.”

As the luminescent figure pranced away, Harry sunk back into oblivion.

 

.     .     .

 

_“Renervate!”_

Harry’s eyes flew open against his will. He blinked, immediately wrapping his arms around his shivering body—

His _wrists._ He looked down at them, turning them over. They were freed, painless—and scarred. Jagged white lines ran across his tan skin, encircling his wrist like a crude bracelet before travelling up his arms.

“The healers couldn’t get rid of the scars,” said an angelic female voice.

Harry looked up.

Heart-stoppingly familiar green eyes stared back at him, set in a heart-shaped face. The woman was tall, with long red hair streaming down her back. She wore jeans and a black turtleneck, and as she walked closer to him, the smell of her perfume wafted in his direction… cold and fresh, like dewy, fresh-picked strawberries.

A perfect embodiment of the woman in his parents’ photo, the one Harry had kept under his pillow for years.

She was none other than Lily Potter, his _mother._

And she was _beautiful._ Real. Harry ran his eyes over her, taking in her strong stride and the tilt of her head, because this was his _mother,_ his _mum,_ he’d literally dreamed about meeting her… _seen_ her in the Mirror of Erised…

“How do you feel?” she asked Harry, her tone cool and detached.

“F-fine!” Harry said hoarsely, unprepared for the way his voice would _break_ like a twelve-year-old’s, and then he was coughing, a little uncontrollably—

_“Aguamenti.”_

A powerful burst of water hit Harry’s face, causing him to splutter. A few splashes got into his mouth and cleared his cough.

Lily cut the spell short, observing him with a frown. Harry wiped his face with the back of his arm, unable to contain the idiotic grin that slowly stretched across his face.

She continued to stare at him, nonplussed, her eyebrows dipping in confusion and suspicion. Then abruptly, her expression hardened, turning fierce and warrior-like.

“I would apologize for your mistreatment, but you Death Eaters have done far worse to our own.”

Harry’s smile quickly slipped away as Lily began to stalk forward, her eyes darkening with fury. Her voice resonated in the large cell, condemning and righteous.

“You’ve killed for blood status… _raped_ for far less…”

She tilted her head downwards, her hair falling forward as the tip of her boot caught on Harry’s jeans. Her green eyes flashed with fire, like a slap, and Harry found himself jerking his face to the side, turning his cheek in her direction.

“Tell me, are you _proud_ to be a Death Eater?”

Harry blinked, taken aback, his heady euphoria completely gone.

“Not one bit,” he said quietly, meeting his mother’s eyes, determined that she see the honesty in his confession.

Her green eyes widened, flickering indecipherably.

But if she was moved by his words, her true thoughts were quickly covered up under a cold, distant expression. She stepped back from him, and with another flick of her wand, the chains around his ankles came undone.

“Up,” she breathed tersely. “Both of you, _follow me._ ” Her last words rung compellingly in the air.

She turned on her high heel and swung the cell door open, walking away briskly.

For a moment, Harry stayed seated on the concrete floor, still paralyzed in shock. Then a pressure began to build, and somehow, he felt himself being propelled to his feet, walking out of the barred prison and after Lily…

Regulus was right next to him, even more ragged-looking than the day he’d been locked up in the cell. Harry looked at him, attempting to make eye contact with him, but the man only had eyes for the view before him.

Because upon exiting the dungeon, Harry realized that they had been inside a _mansion_ the entire time.

The hallways were high, bright, and ornate, decorated with silver mirror pieces and paintings. The moving portraits of various ancestors were quiet as Harry passed by, their faint whispers of mutterings indecipherable to his own ears.

The hallway ended back at a huge entrance, where—Harry glimpsed through the maroon-curtained windows—marble statues stood tall and mighty right outside. A chandelier hung sixty feet up, burning eternally, its firelight dancing across the silvery white marble expanse of the floor.

Silver and red seemed to dominate the the coloring of the decor.

“Of _course,_ ” Regulus hissed suddenly under his breath, the first words he’d said to Harry in a long time. “Of course, of course!”

“What?” Harry whispered, alarmed.

Regulus nodded his head in the direction of a door at the entrance, and Harry glimpsed a red and silver family crest painted upon it. It had a crescent moon and stars, surrounding two silvery white, intertwined… sheep?

 _No,_ Harry realized quickly, noting the antlers emerging from the heads. _Deer._

“We’ve finally discovered the Order headquarters,” Regulus said quietly. “And it is none other than the Potter Manor.”

He looked at Lily, ten feet in front of them. “That is why she felt no need to chain our hands behind us, or incapacitate us in some way while leading us out from the prison.”

“Why?” Harry asked, leaning in.

Regulus unwittingly fell into the same, lecture-like tones he’d used on Harry many times before, during their cafeteria lunches.

“ _Magic._ The magic inside of Wizarding houses - especially older manors that have been around for a while - tends to obey and work at the will of their lady. As the old Latin saying goes, _‘In her realm, she holds supreme power.’_ ” Regulus raised his eyebrows at Harry. “Where else do you think the term, “lady of the house” comes from?”

Harry stared at him dumbly. “I always thought it was just a universal phrase, created by muggles.”

Regulus cracked a small smile. “ _Really,_ Hadrian. You’ve got to stop giving muggles so much credit.”

Green eyes flashed warily in Harry’s direction, perhaps at the knowledge of his fake name. But the young lady of the house said nothing. This time, however, the green flare triggered something in Harry, as if he was forgetting something very important…

_The green-eyed snake pendant._

Frantically, Harry began searching his pockets. He always kept the reverse-engineered port-key on himself, glamoured and hidden…

“All of your possessions have been confiscated, of course.” Lily crossed her arms and raised an eyebrow. “I don’t know why you would bother _checking—_ ”

He looked up at Lily pleadingly. “Including a green-eyed, serpentine amulet?” He closed his eyes. “ _Please,_ I’m begging you. A child’s life is on the line.”

Lily’s eyes widened, flickering unreadably once more, as Regulus turned to stared at Harry as well.

Then, slowly, she said, “I’m sorry, but the only thing found on you upon capture was a wand. Nothing else.”

 _Nothing… else?_ Harry’s heart pounded furiously.If his glamours had worked and the amulet hadn’t been taken away before they’d imprisoned him… then how could it have disappeared? Where could it possibly be?

That familiar pressure from before began to build up on Harry’s neck, growing distinctly uncomfortable, and he ran to catch up with Regulus and Lily, his mind still racing to find an answer.

_Darkened gray eyes glinted hatefully at him._

Sirius? Could _Sirius_ have broken past his glamours and taken it?

_“... Won’t be needing that anymore.”_

Harry’s eyes widened in realization. But before he could think anything else, double doors opened before them. Light streamed from large, stained-glass windows, peppering over a grand living room with red sofas and chairs.

And _people._ All familiar faces.

Harry ran his eyes over them. Dumbledore sat on one end of the largest sofa in the room. He shared it with a tall man with curly hair, whose back was to Harry. On the curly-haired man’s other side was Sirius, wearing a black t-shirt, sitting with his arms crossed and his wand poking out.

An older couple stood behind Sirius - a friendly-looking man with light brown hair, and a slightly plump-cheeked lady with short, dark hair.

And behind Dumbledore, half-hidden by the shadows, was a heavily-scarred man with sad eyes.

The buzz of chattering that had been audible from outside dropped to a sudden silence as everyone looked back at Regulus and Harry.

“Lily,” Dumbledore spoke pleasantly. “Thank you for bringing them.” His cool blue eyes skimmed over Regulus and Harry, his voice hardening but ever so polite.

“Please, join us.”

Lily stayed by the entrance as Harry and Regulus walked forward… only to be ambushed.

Chains wrapped around Harry’s tender wrists, bringing them together behind his back. Moments later, he found himself seated in a chair right next to the roaring fireplace that hadn’t been visible from the double-door entrance.

On Harry’s left sat Regulus, tied up in a similar fashion to him.

On his right sat _Snape,_ arms and legs bounded.

Harry’s mouth fell open then, resisting the urge to scream in shock.

 

Snape’s mouth was gone. In its place was a smooth expanse of pale skin.

 

Bile rose in Harry’s throat.

How could they _do_ this? Yes, Snape was a Death Eater. He had probably committed crimes worth years in Azkaban.

But the Order… they were supposed to be the _good guys._ Forgiving, merciful. They weren’t supposed to stoop to _Voldemort’s level—_

“Forgive me.” Dumbledore said somberly, “But such precautions _—_ however tasteless _—_ are necessary.”

He rose to his full height, attired in all his pink and purple glory. In any other situation, Harry might have found his former professor’s robes funny, endearing.

“This is war.”

Next to Dumbledore, the curly-haired man and Sirius were already on their feet, wands trained on both Harry and Regulus.

And that curly-haired man, glaring at them from underneath rectangular frames, was none other than _James Potter._

Harry bit his raw lips, sobs welling at the back of his throat. His father. _Et tu, Brutus?_

On the table separating the prisoners from the Order, two colorless, odorless vials appeared. Harry found his right hand suddenly freed, within reach of one of the vials.

“Drink. Then we will talk.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wowww that got dark. I love torturing Harry? And I hope you guys like the new characters so far?
> 
> Anyways. Thank you so much for all your support and comments! And let me know what you think!
> 
> *Note: The italicized quote at the beginning of the chapter was taken directly from the OotP.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guyyyys can't believe I broke 1000 kudos. Thanks soo much I love you guys!!!! Like, your kudos and comments are mainly the reason I'm still writing this, so thank you!!! <333
> 
> Beta'd by Aria/RiddleSonata <3

_On the table separating the prisoners from the Order, two colorless, odorless vials appeared. Harry found his right hand suddenly freed, within reach of one of the vials._

_“Drink. Then we will talk.”_

Harry stared searchingly at his former headmaster, looking for a hint of sympathy. But Dumbledore’s cold blue eyes were heartless and unforgiving, as if he’d already condemned Harry without knowing who he truly was.

As his eyes flickered over the rest of the Order, over the people he _loved,_ Harry found those same emotions reflected back at him. Lily stood stone-faced near the doorway, as if to prevent them from escape. Remus stood behind everyone in a corner of the room, his amber eyes glowing from the shadows.

James and Sirius still had their wands trained on Harry and Regulus, and James was staring hatefully at a mouthless Snape but _Sirius…_

Sirius was glaring coldly at Harry, his gaze as chilling as the Potter dungeons themselves. _I’m watching you,_ his narrowed eyes seemed to say, and it made Harry want to shrivel into a tiny, insignificant particle of dust.

A surreal feeling of oddness washed over him.

_If only they knew who he was… if he could tell them…_

Harry looked back at the clear, liquid vial on the table, already knowing what it was.

_Veritaserum._

Perfect, he thought.

And then, now, of all times, Harry’s sense of humor kicked in.

“At least it’s not a lemon drop,” he muttered quietly to Regulus, receiving a furious, almost exasperated glare from his gray-eyed companion.

Briefly, Harry saw James’s face twitch, as if holding back a sneeze. There were a couple of faint coughs somewhere in the background.

“Well, _Veritaserum_ isn’t much better,” Regulus hissed, meeting Dumbledore’s eyes. “And it’s illegal, too. Strictly controlled by the Ministry.”

Sirius stepped forward, bristling. “As if _you’re_ one to talk about legality _—_ ”

“Sirius,” Dumbledore said warningly, and the man stopped.

Dumbledore faced Regulus and Harry once more. “You will drink… or you will be delivered to Wizengamot, right now. And the evidence upon your arm is enough to sentence you to a lifetime of Azkaban.”

Harry shivered. He immediately reached for the vial on the table, only to have his hand knocked away.

“ _No,_ ” Regulus gasped, a sense of desperateness clear in his voice. He turned his pleading eyes towards Dumbledore. “Just wait—let me explain—” He grabbed Harry’s vial and threw it on the floor, smashing it. Then, as exclamations of outrage began to reach their ears, Regulus grabbed his own vial of Veritaserum and downed it in one go.

“Regulus!” Harry whispered. “What on _earth_ —?”

Regulus cut him off, speaking in a rushed manner.

“I have reason to suspect that someone has placed an Unbreakable Vow on Hadrian, preventing him from being able to speak about himself. If he were to take the potion, there is no telling how it would interact with the vow.” His gray eyes widened. “It could rip him apart… tearing his mind to shambles, removing his magic—assuming the effects of Veritaserum overrode the compulsion of the vow.”

“... perhaps a fate he deserves,” a low voice muttered.

Regulus bowed his head in submission, ignoring the remark. “I beg you—allow me to answer on both of our behalves. I am close friends with him, so my knowledge of him is unparalleled by any of the other Death Eaters’.”

As the responding silence prolonged, Harry waited for the verdict, heart in throat. He’d never even _considered_ the vow.

He glanced at Regulus.

Warmth bloomed in his stomach, even as panic-filled as it was. Because despite Harry’s betrayal, Regulus was still protecting him, and it was heartwarming to see that he still cared for Harry…

Harry’s mouth quirked in a secret smile. Regulus still considered him his _close friend_. Even if only under the influence of Veritaserum.

“Regulus,” Harry started quietly. “You don’t have to—”

“I know, you utter imbecile.” Regulus hissed, sneering, his eyes flashing as he finally turned in his head fully in Harry’s direction. “I’m doing it _anyways._ ”

Harry bit his lip, shutting up.

Silence. Then,

“Very well,” Dumbledore said, peering down at Harry through his half-moon spectacles. “Though I must say, all this secrecy surrounding your identity only makes me even more tempted to extract the truth about you.”

His blue eyes narrowed as he continued to stare at Harry, who could only swallow dryly and stare back. _Could he read Harry’s mind… even with the Vow?_

“I will not force… _Hadrian_ to drink,” Dumbledore uttered eventually, nudging his glasses up his nose. He turned to the short, plump lady in the corner.

“Alice—an update, please.”

Alice nodded firmly as Frank wrapped a firm arm around her. _Neville’s parents,_ Harry realized, exhaling sharply in surprise. “Seventeen deaths last week—five Ministry officials from Yaxley’s attack on Monday. The rest were muggle casualties.”

She wrung her hands, looking down. “Three captures. Including that of Peter Pettigrew’s, a recent member of the Order.”

James scowled furiously at once, muttering under his breath, “ _Goddamn_ Death Eaters.” He glanced briefly at Regulus and Harry before settling his glare back on Snape. “Anything you’d like to add to the kill count?”

Everyone looked at the Death Eaters centered in the room. Regulus and Harry shook their heads quickly, but a sound seemed to bubble from Snape’s throat… unable to come out.

With a quick flash of his wand, Dumbledore flung a peach-colored light at Snape, returning his mouth to him. Harry watched the gruesome process with bated breath.

The bottom half of Snape’s face split horizontally, creating a bloody, gaping maw. Lips seemed to grow out of his skin, curling out of the hole that had replaced his mouth… and then teeth grew, and Snape’s eyes rolled upwards as he released a pained moan…

Harry looked away, his skin crawling and tingling feverishly. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw James’s eyes flicker away as well, Lily and Alice swallowing in disgust.

Looking away hadn’t stopped him from hearing the crackle of his jawbone being reformed. Harry squeezed his eyes shut, nonsensically.

“You’re a Death Eater—shouldn’t you be used to more gruesome acts by now?”

His eyes fluttered open in the direction of the soft voice that had spoken to him. Lily was looking at him curiously, her arms crossed as she leaned back against the door. Her green eyes were flickering with that same unreadable emotion from earlier.

No, not unreadable.

 _Concern,_ Harry realized, his chest pounding. Because right now, he felt like he was about to faint.

“Hadrian became a Death Eater only a few hours before capture,” Regulus uttered, speaking for him. “He’s always been one of the more… soft-hearted ones.”

James, Sirius, and Remus all sniggered at that.

“Imagine that,” James muttered, raising his eyebrows at Harry. “A _soft-hearted_ Death Eater.”

“Sounds oxy _moronic_ to me,” Sirius replied lowly.

“Enough!” Dumbledore bellowed, quickly straightening up to his full, formidable height. This time, his glare was turned towards two members of the Order. “You are adults, and members of the Order. Do _not_ make me regret inducting you.”

His gaze burned furiously in the direction of James and Sirius, his cold, ice-blue fury a sight to behold. The magic in the air seemed to buzz, a reminder of just how powerful Albus Dumbledore was.

Then suddenly, the buzzing stopped. Dumbledore closed his eyes tiredly, rubbing his fingers at the bridge of his nose before his slipping his glasses back on.

James and Sirius slumped, looking very apologetic.

“Sorry, Sir,” they both mumbled, looking downwards. The sunlight streaming in only highlighted their features further… and it was in that moment that Harry realized just how _young_ they were.

 _Nineteen._ His parents’ generation was nineteen-years-old right now… and turning out to be significantly less mature than Harry had anticipated.

“James, I _know_ you know better.” Dumbledore’s eyes shifted to Sirius. They seemed to pause on him for a second too long before he finally said, “Sirius, you too.”

Sirius nodded slowly, the way his jaw ticked in slight displeasure making it clear that Dumbledore’s pause hadn’t escaped his notice.

Harry tilted his head at the interaction. How curious.

Dumbledore didn't seem to like Sirius. At _all._

“I’ll set them straight,” Lily said calmly, glaring at her husband. James visibly swallowed. Sirius snickered once before dissolving into polite coughs, and her eyes flickered sternly to him as well. “ _Both_ of them.” 

She looked at Dumbledore with exasperation, the first real expression Harry had seen on her face. “You know how they get when they’re together…” her voice trailed off quietly.

“Thank you, Lily. But you shouldn’t have to,” Dumbledore said, shaking his head. He looked past her to all of the other Order members. “We’ve lost so many of our older, experienced fighters. There are barely any of us left to stand up against Voldemort.”

Dumbledore’s eyes burned with the conviction of a leader by the time he’d finished speaking the last word.

And then, his eyes turned to the Death Eaters.

“I had originally planned to feed you Veritaserum and extract every bit of information on the Dark Lord’s actions and plans possible.”

He relaxed again, suddenly looked very old and tired.

“But that wouldn’t be enough. You know, just as well as we do, that Voldemort is very close to winning the war.” His eyes flickered repeatedly over Snape, Regulus, and Harry. “What we need… is a secret weapon.”

Dumbledore paused, watching them closely as he spoke the next few words.

“How would you like to become spies for the Order?”

Silence, save for ragged breathing on both sides.

But before any of the Death Eaters could speak—

“ _What?_ ” Lily demanded, her hands flying to her hips like they belonged there. Her face, Harry watched with wonder, was turning redder by the second… a horrible contrast to her bright red hair. “Excuse me, Albus! When did we ever decide upon this?”

Dumbledore raised a hand wearily. “Lily, you’re a smart woman. Just think about it.” His eyes flickered evaluatively over the Death Eaters. “Because the way I see it, we happened to capture the three Death Eaters most likely to _turn._ For their own, personal reasons.”

Snape and Regulus seemed to tense as blue eyes bore into theirs.

“I’ll admit to having personal reasons for wanting to turn you as well,” Dumbledore said, continuing to speak. “All of you are valuable members of the Inner Circle… Severus, Voldemort’s personal spellmaker… Regulus, one of Voldemort’s premier strategists…”

His eyes stuttered on Harry.

“You, however, are an unknown factor.”

Silence.

Then, Snape spoke. His voice was rusty, his mouth moving strangely around the syllables… but nevertheless, words were coming out of it.

“Oh, he may have only become a Death Eater the day we were captured. But be assured of his value to the Dark Lord—he is a _parselmouth._ ” He bit out the last part with venom, and everyone in the room gasped, their attention suddenly solely focused upon him.

Harry froze as James narrowed an acute, mildly horrified stare at him.

“Are you by any chance _related_ to the Dark Lord?”

Harry shook his head furiously, a series of _No’s_ spilling from his mouth like a waterfall—

“Not that anyone knows,” Snape said smoothly. “But if it helps, his full name is Hadrian _Gaunt_.” He narrowed a look at Harry himself, clearly one of the few people in the room aware of the weight that last name held.

Harry stopped moving as Dumbledore shot him a keen, assessing look.

There were multiple reasons why Veritaserum was banned, one of them being that it was a flawed potion. It allowed the drinker to spill the truth from their perspective; but if that perspective is flawed, so was the information that they spilled.

Harry shot an accusative, betrayed glance in Snape’s direction. The Order might as well have kept his mouth shut.

 _Thank you,_ Snape, _for once again proving how utterly self-serving and petty you can be._

Harry’s eyes flickered back in Dumbledore’s direction, somehow wanting to assure him that Snape’s words didn’t mean anything.

But then, out of nowhere, Dumbledore let out a huff of _amusement._ His eyes began to twinkle with downright mischief as he gazed down at Harry… with a look so unlike his earlier cold, unsympathetic glares.

“Not true. He’s about as related to the Voldemort as James is.”

Harry exhaled in relief as the mean, suspicious stares around him abated slightly.

Then the full meaning of Dumbledore’s words hit him, and Harry was straightening up against the bounds, looking at his former headmaster with wide eyes—

“If we do accept and decide to turn _,_ ” Snape began, his tone dangerously calm, “What do we get out of this? What do we get in exchange for switching loyalties to a side that is obviously losing?”

Harry leaned back in his chair, tilting his head curiously in Snape’s direction. _Was he actually considering switching sides?_

Dumbledore leaned back on his heels. “In exchange? Besides not being sent to Azkaban this very instant?”

He gazed at Snape, long and piercing. “Forgiveness. As well as the _complete_ knowledge on a certain secret weapon of the future.”

Snape stared back with wide eyes. For a second, Harry could have sworn those black eyes flickered in the direction of his mother.

 _Complete_ knowledge, Harry realized with a jolt, referred to the Prophecy in its entirety. As opposed to merely the half that Snape had heard. Dumbledore was tempting Snape with knowledge that, no matter which side he ultimately chose, would be very valuable.

It was a _brilliant_ move, Harry thought with a small smile _._ Because Dumbledore was a brilliant old man.

Then Dumbledore switched his deep gaze to Regulus, uttering. “Acceptance. And more importantly, freedom.”

Regulus seemed to flinch, his eyes darting to Sirius almost on instinct. The old headmaster was tempting Regulus with the concept of freedom from his family’s expectations… from the Blacks. All while enticing him with the idea that Sirius, the older brother whom he’d always sought the approval of, would accept him back.

_Tactical genius._

And then, finally, the headmaster’s eyes returned back to Harry, omniscient and soul-searching.

“Trust in the knowledge that you are doing the right thing,” he said eventually, his gaze staying on Harry for a few seconds.

Harry could only blink as Dumbledore voiced the very concern that had been plaguing him for months.

“All of these things you will receive. Because—Regulus, Severus.” Dumbledore looked back them calmly. “I have watched over you since you were children, as eleven-year-olds who first came into Hogwarts. I have known your hearts and minds, seen them change and transform and develop. And I know that these,” he put a firm hand on Regulus’s shoulder, to Harry’s left, “are all things,” and his other hand on Severus’s, “that you _want._ ”

He looked at Harry head-on.

“And Harry,” Dumbledore said, “I think you’ll find yourself very much at home here.”

Harry nodded numbly, already firm in his decision. The three of them stayed like that, an odd sort of triangle with him in the middle of it.

Dumbledore squeezed their shoulders before sliding his hands off, outstretching them on either side of himself.

“Join us,” he uttered simply.

And this time, they all nodded quietly.

 

.     .     .

 

Like before, Lily was leading them all through the winding hallways of Potter Manor. Except, this time, Snape was with them.

“You’ll be staying in the same room, so try not to kill each other,” Lily said without a backwards glance, not checking to see if they were following her. The Manor’s magic ensured that they did. “And you won’t be able to escape it unless we open it from the outside, or summon you.”

Harry’s mouth went dry. This was starting to sound awfully familiar to his imprisonment at the Grimmauld Place.

“What will we be doing, then?” Harry asked. “When we’re allowed out of our rooms?”

Lily glanced at him then. As she did, he noticed that she was also, very pointedly, making an effort _not_ to look at Snape… who was very obviously trying to make eye contact with her.

The whole situation between his mother and Snape was making Harry feel distinctly uncomfortable.

“Training,” she said shortly, before opening a door at the end of the hallway.

The room was gorgeous, painted in silver and red tones just like the rest of the house. Three beds, equally spaced out from each other, took up the majority of the room. But there were desks as well, and paper, and books, and even a couple of portrait paintings.

Harry entered the room, Regulus and Snape following right behind him. As Snape entered, Harry swore he heard the other man mutter, “Lily…”

But if she’d heard anything, Lily didn’t give any indication.

“And once you are trustworthy enough, trained enough, you will be released back to the Dark Lord’s hands.”

Without further ado, the door was closed behind them, softly but firmly, and it was only the click of a lock that had Harry was spinning back towards it, his heart thudding rapidly.

From one prison to another, he thought hysterically. Even at the Order headquarters, finally in the place where Harry had sought to be…

It was just another beautiful prison.

The three of them stood in silence for a while, letting the events of the day wash over them.

“We’re traitors now,” Regulus sighed.

Snape looked sharply at him. “We are… whatever we choose to be,” he said slowly, cautiously.

Harry’s eyes narrowed in the bitter man’s direction. Had Snape just proposed becoming a double-agent for the _wrong side?_

“But yes,” Snape continued, sighing wearily. “For now, our lives are in the hands of the Order. For every instruction of theirs that we follow, we grow closer and closer to becoming traitors.”

Silence. Then,

“You’re not still mad at me, are you?” Harry asked Regulus tentatively. Snape snorted derisively, but Regulus looked at him seriously, contemplatively.

“I haven’t exactly forgiven you. But no,” Regulus said eventually, shaking his head. “Between everything that has happened today, I find that I no longer have the _energy_ to stay mad at you.”

He sighed, stretching himself.

Then he paused, arms still above his head, as if there was something on the tip of his tongue but he didn’t quite know how to phrase it. “But…”

“What?” Harry asked him, crossing his arms.

Regulus bit his bottom lip, uncertainty painted across his features. “Why… did Dumbledore call you that?”

Harry’s eyebrows rose. “Call me what?”

But Snape didn’t seem confused at all. If anything, he only narrowed his eyes in Harry’s direction before exchanging a long look with Regulus.

“ _What?”_ Harry asked again, more urgently.

Regulus looked at him, his dark eyes piercing and evaluative.

“He called you… _Harry._ ”

 

All of Harry’s breath left him in one go as he heard his true name fall from Regulus’s lips. His mind raced to find the incident… when… _when…_

_And Harry… I think you’ll find yourself very much at home here._

His eyes widened. Dumbledore _knew._

For the first time since his capture, Harry felt hope—light and bright—bubble within him, allowing him to _breathe_ properly for the first time…

And then _rage_ hit him.

Dumbledore had known _…_ and he’d _still_ locked Harry up.

Fury licking down his spine, Harry stalked towards the entrance and banged his fist against the bedroom door.

“Hadrian!” Regulus hissed, “ _Stop._ ”

But Harry continued banging on the door furiously. “I will not. I’m getting out of here if it’s the last thing I do!”

His words seemed to tingle in the air… like ozone after a bolt of lightning. And then, to everyone’s shock, the door handle seemed to glow a bright silvery light.

The door opened, and Harry’s hand dropped to his side.

_What on earth?_

It had opened. But hadn’t Lily said that none of them would be able to open it?

“How,” Snape started, “did you get the Manor to obey _you_?”

 

The _Manor?_ Obey _Harry?_

 

And then, from somewhere deep in his memory, the words of his godson floated to the surface of his mind.

_“— this cool thing I found in a room I got "access" to because I have Black blood or something…”_

Harry stopped moving, his mind racing to make sense of the thoughts that flooded him.

_Blood._

_House Magic._

Did the Manor’s magic work based on… _Potter_ blood?

“Hadrian!” Regulus said, louder than before, jerking Harry from his trance. “What happened—?”

Harry shook his head. “No time. I have to leave.” He walked out of the door, looking back at Snape and Regulus. _He had to tell them…_ “You guys, stay here.”

“Hadrian— _wait—_ ”

Harry shut the door firmly before sneaking down the dark corridors, his mind buzzing with a mission.

 

.     .     .

 

Narcissa opened the door to Hadrian’s former bedroom. It was dark, quiet. Still.

Then her eyes caught on the small form shivering underneath the blankets. Walking towards the bed, she slowly pulled the covers off of the young boy.

“Teddy, it’s Narcissa.”

Teddy leapt at her, sobbing and clutching his small arms around her lower torso.

“I was so _scared,_ ” Teddy wailed.

Narcissa hushed him, holding him back closely. Oh _god,_ Teddy must have been locked up in the room for days, without Harry to transport him to daycare or take him _anywhere…_

“Harry hasn’t come back for days. It’s just been me and Kreacher… he gave me food, sometimes…” Teddy wiped snot and tears from his face on her brand new shawl, but for once, she had bigger concerns.

The child must have been so frightened.

It was fortunate that she’d just gotten back from Hogwarts for her Christmas Break. She didn’t know where Harry or Regulus or Snape were, or how _long_ they’d been gone for…

She’d only just met Lucius—his face bleeding and twitching from prolonged exposure to the Cruciatus Curse—and she’d instantly known something was very wrong.

The Dark Lord had taken his rage at the capture of his three Death Eaters out on the rest of them.

Narcissa hugged Teddy close to her chest, rocking him on the bed. All she could think now was that Teddy wasn’t safe here. Without Harry, he was vulnerable.

When Teddy’s sobs had eventually subsided, she whispered in his ear.

“I don’t know where Harry is. And I can’t keep you here with me.” Narcissa frowned. “I still live with my father, as you know… I just feel like keeping you with the Blacks isn’t safe.”

And, of course, she couldn’t take him to Malfoy Manor either. Any child would be unsafe in the Death Eater headquarters.

Narcissa’s mouth twitched in a barely contained scowl. _That_ was why she didn’t want children.

It just wasn’t safe.

“Anyways—I’m taking you to my sister.”

Teddy’s eyes widened, tears beginning to well. “Bella?” The bad woman who would visit the caretaker place. She would always scare the children, burn their toys…

“ _No._ No, certainly _not_ Bella,” Narcissa muttered under breath. Good Lord. Her eldest sister didn’t have a nurturing bone in her body.

Narcissa put her hood up and faced Teddy. “I’m taking you to my other sister. Andromeda.”


	11. um

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pls don't hate me

Hi!

This isn’t a chapter. I wanted to address the direction this fic is going in, specifically regarding the “romantic relationships.” Because according to my fic’s original timeline, the romance is about to start building from the next chapter. So I just wanted your opinion on a couple of things.

So, thematically, _Chained_ has focused a lot on blurring the line between good/evil. Obviously, Harry has to commit some terrible crimes in order to keep Teddy safe; even the Order members, who are supposed to be the “good guys,” have to do bad things sometimes.

A lot of Harry’s angst in this fic is self-motivated — because he’s constantly feeling the consequences/guilt of his actions. In fact, this whole fic is an angst fest.

According to my original plans… well, I’d been planning for an endgame Harry/Sirius fic. And I could give a million reasons why I adore this horrible, tabooish ship, but here’s the gist of it:

Let’s say, after a long period of Slow Burn (i.e. after Harry and Sirius stop hating each other), Harry feels a sliver of attraction for this younger Sirius. And as soon as he does, he shuts the attraction down. Guilt, denial, self-disgust, horror because the man’s his future  _godfather…_

Those feelings of attraction conflicting with wrongness… attraction conflicting with Harry’s very strong, moral compass and conscience… _this_ is what really attracted me to this ship in the first place. I _want_ to make this ship as realistic and angst-ridden and slow-burny as possible, with Harry going through stages of denial and angst so that by the time Harry and Sirius get together, everyone is saying, “Finally!” instead of “ew.”

And since moral conscience/doing the right thing is a big theme of this fic in general (as Dumbledore exposes Harry in the last chapter), that is why I felt… the Harry/Sirius ship was perfect. (Especially conflict-wise.)

\----- Here are my thoughts on the other ships -----

Harry/Regulus: While I can see—and am guilty of writing—tension between these two, I ultimately consider their relationship very brotherly. _That said -_ I did have plans for Regulus! I never planned for him to end up alone ;) (Hint - I originally shipped him with one of the Marauders.)

Harry/Voldemort: This was probably my second choice pairing after Sirry. I love Voldemort—I’ve been a hardcore tomarrymort shipper for a while. And I did end up writing some weirdly tense Voldemort/Harry moments because of that lol. But if I’d been planning for Voldemort/Harry from the start, I would have started with Harry being in Order territory before being captured by Voldemort… know what I mean? So he could stay with the Death Eaters then, and get to know the younger but still evil Dark Lord?

\----- Final thoughts -----

I thought that maybe, I could convince people to like Harry/Sirius. I thought I could somehow get more people into this ship, if I wrote the fic and relationship well enough.

I've been a selfish author, trying to push one of my favorite "forbidden" ships onto readers. And I'm trying to decide what to do now that the reality — that many people don't like it because they are not okay with it—is actually settling in.

Most people are rooting for Voldemort/Harry or Harry/Regulus. Very few people are rooting for Sirius, and I get it. It’s weird, uncomfortable, and maybe a little incesty.

So I’m considering changing this fic… to gen.

So, Harry/Sirius, or gen.

I’ll admit, I feel like I’m going through a little mid-life crisis regarding this fic. I’m kind of lost… torn between doing what I want, and what will make my readers happy. But ultimately, you guys are the reason I’m still writing this fic!!!

I’m so sorry if I’ve led some of you on about the ships in this fic. Things are about get very emotionally messy and complex. But I hope you’re still willing to stay on this journey with me, whichever way it goes!

Be sure to let me know what you think. Your opinion means so much to me!

 

Love,

missriddle


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